Fire and Ice
by Lokimis
Summary: It was in Aramis's gallant nature to offer help to two lost brothers, one dark and one fair, especially when the darker one had eyes of godly green and seemed to radiate with a light befitting an angel that had lost its way. [Or, Loki and Thor arrive in 17th century France and meet some dashing Musketeers. Eventual slash pairings, no spoilers].
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello! This is a co-authored fic. The idea came about after having to alternate between writing Avengers and Musketeers fanfiction and idly wondering what would happen if Loki (and Thor) met Aramis (and the others). What followed were some hysterical, sleep-deprived ideas that, somehow, formed this much loved and laboured story.**

**This is set post-Musketeers and pre-Thor, but there aren't any spoilers of any kind for all you new American readers ;) All we did was make d'Artagnan a Musketeer, and Thor and Loki are still blood brothers.**

**We're writing in alternate chapters at the moment, and as one of us is American and the other is British, there will probably be some differences in spelling/form. We'll try to get a new chapter up every Sunday and Wednesday evening, but as we are both very busy and important, we make no promises. Please bear with us and please enjoy! - K and L  
**

* * *

"Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
To say that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice."

- Robert Frost, _'Fire and Ice'_

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

Aramis had been idling in the garrison for too long with nothing to do but spar, and he was finally starting to tire of it.

Of course, part of the reasoning behind that was because Porthos kept insisting they wrestle rather than indulge in some shooting, and neither could ever beat the other at their favourite method.

Besides, Porthos always cheated.

He had only managed about ten steps out of the Musketeers' yard when that same man fell in beside him with nothing more than an innocent look at the streets around them.

"What do you want?" Aramis tried to sound frustrated but couldn't quite keep the smile from his face.

"Nothin'," Porthos replied amicably, brushing his shoulder against his. "Jus' wanted to stretch my legs."

Aramis hummed in response, a pleased noise that made Porthos shoot him a grin, because they both knew that the other was only ever valued company.

Especially when it came to boredom and lonely nights.

Aramis had long become used to the fact that his heart didn't mind who it fell or broke for, whether they were man or woman made no difference to him. He hadn't chosen to be this way, but he had stopped hiding it when doing so had hurt.

Porthos' life in the Court of Miracles had taught him to take comfort from wherever he could, and if that was in the arms of a man, so be it.

It had made life very interesting for the two of them when they had realised that important fact about the other.

Interesting and deliciously exhausting.

He would give his life for Porthos, but so would he for Athos and D'Artagnan too. Just because Aramis shared his bed with the big Musketeer had not changed their friendship in any other way than the occasional sly glance and a warm tussle on the cold ground.

Thankfully, Porthos felt the same way, and it was so utterly relieving to know that their shared moments of bliss were nothing more than two friends – very close friends, mind – finding succour in each other in moments of madness.

Of course, Porthos had been the only _man _he lay with for quite some time; no one else had come near in attraction or, most importantly, trust.

Trust was important when the explicit thoughts that occasionally ruled his mind were ones that the Church would have him condemned for.

Aramis liked life, it was full of pleasures, and so he kept his secrets close to his chest.

He loved quite blatantly when he chose to, but it had always been with women. He had never had cause to fall head-over-heels for a man, it had just never happened.

He thanked his God for that. His friends knew how reckless he could be when it came to love. He became blind to everything else except securing affections and tumbling them thoroughly – sometimes the love even lasted to the next night.

But never with a man, one that wasn't Porthos anyway, and that was different.

"You up to anything, later?" Porthos asked casually, but the question hinted of harsh cries and heat.

"Why, no, I don't think I am," he replied innocently, savouring the hungry look on the man's face. "Do you need something?"

"I do."

"Well then, I'm sure I can help-" Aramis cut himself off when he heard a ruckus around the corner, and then stumbled when Porthos pushed him down that same side street because the man thought that he had been teasing.

His back met the closest building and then Porthos' hands were running over his body, searching for skin and contact and _succour. _

"Hush," Aramis urged breathlessly, desperately trying to listen to the nearing sounds over his own suddenly excited panting. It was an instinctual reaction, Porthos tended to be a little rough and it always made Aramis go crazy with lust.

Porthos grumbled against his neck, breath hot and incredibly distracting.

Two men bundled down the opposite end of the small alley and alarmed Porthos into jumping away from him, ever wary of being seen even as he cast him a yearning look. Aramis would have returned it, had his attention not been grabbed by the argument the two strangers were having.

"You are such an oaf, where are we?" the first said derisively, his black hair sleek and long, swept back from a pale face with the sharpest cheekbones that Aramis had ever seen.

"I do not know, brother, but it is Midgard," the other replied. This one was built bigger, along the same lines as Porthos, broad and tall; but where Porthos was dark, this one was light, blonde and radiant.

They were dressed in such finely wrought armour that Aramis had to stop himself from rushing forward and examining it, even as the first one swirled his green cloak angrily and stilled when he noticed that they were there.

"This is all your fault," he muttered to the other, who advanced towards them, beaming.

Porthos immediately reached for his rapier and the broad stranger halted a few feet away, saying, "I mean no harm. My name is Thor, and this is my brother, Loki."

Loki heaved a sigh that sounded so incredibly world-weary that it made Aramis hide a smile. As the slender man joined his brother, a tense line stiffened his shoulders and he looked at the sky as if it had betrayed him somehow.

Evidently, he was an angel.

The haughty cast to his face only made him appear more attractive, a cold sort of beauty that Aramis wanted to warm. He amended that perhaps he was a fallen angel, instead.

Immediately, he was caught up in the mental images of helping him _fly._

Porthos' voice faintly broke through his fascination, "I'm Porthos, and this is-"

"Aramis," he interrupted huskily, and swept his hat from his head in a graceful bow that finally managed to make Loki look at him.

Bewitching, startling, almost _godly_ green eyes stared into his. Amusement began to flicker there, lighting the icy, emerald depths like fireflies in a dark forest.

Aramis had fallen.

His fingers itched to trace the thin, cruel, captivating line of Loki's lips, to drag through the silky black length of his hair, to see if his skin was quite that captivating pale shade all over the lean body so temptingly hidden under supple leather.

"Thor," Loki murmured to his side, his gaze still locked with Aramis', "There is something different here, they're wearing armour."

Thor frowned at them both. "And cloaks," he added with a glance at his own luxuriant one, red to Loki's green.

Aramis could finally break the emerald-eyed regard to look at Porthos with concern, but his friend was staring at him with a lecherous grin on his face and it said '_you sucker_'.

Was he really that obvious?

* * *

Loki fought to restrain his bemused pleasure, but it was proving so very difficult.

As he had wondered how Thor had managed to completely mess up what was supposed to be an easy trip, he had taken note of the high points of colour on the two strangers' cheeks. The dark, broad man had seemed a little flustered, but the tan, gallant one had-

Well, he had _looked _at him.

There was such an intense look in this Aramis' brown eyes that it made wonderful fire burn away all of the contempt he had planned to bestow on his idiot brother.

It was hard to be angry with anything when you were being looked at as if you tasted delicious.

Thankfully, before he could show the man how pleasantly surprised he was, his arrogance came to him like a lover's embrace. It helped put the disdainful tilt to his lips that he wanted, for they had business to attend to that couldn't revolve around dashing swordsmen.

Although, it seemed that his particular brand of play would not be looked down upon as it was on Asgard.

Loki found that he couldn't look away from brown eyes that seared into his and flicked to his mouth and back again – what Aramis saw evidently did not deter him, for the man took a deep, almost savouring breath that made Loki's own catch.

Aramis slowly straightened from his remarkably elegant bow and placed what appeared to be a hat with a feather in it onto his dark brown curls.

Loki wasn't sure what he was more interested in, the ridiculous hat or the smooth way its owner moved.

"You boys wouldn't be _lost_, now, would you?" the other, Porthos, asked with what sounded like a low tease.

Thor blinked in astonishment at the man and Loki rather had to agree, was everyone as openly amorous in this area of Midgard?

To Loki's amusement, Thor stammered, "Er, yes, actually. Where are we?"

"Rue Plumet, you're near the Musketeers' garrison if that's any help to you," Porthos offered in what was probably a helpful manner to anyone who had understood the names given.

But he and Thor had no references to rely on, no idea where they were. The two Midgardians shared a laughing look that allowed Loki to get his bearings; brown eyes could be quite distracting when they burned so agreeably.

The ground gave way underneath his foot and he looked down in mild disgust. They were on muddy floor or a dirt path, and around them were barrels and crates. It was actually quite bizarre now that he noticed it; it almost looked like a dirtier version of Asgard-

He leaned away from Thor and looked onto the street beyond, his mouth dropping slightly at what he saw. Wooden carts that were pulled by animals creaked by, and there was not a spark of electricity to be seen.

He might not know a lot about the Midgardians' planet, but he knew that they evolved extraordinarily quickly.

They did not go backwards.

"What is the date," he asked faintly, and felt Thor stiffen besides him.

Porthos rolled his eyes and a frown creased Aramis forehead – they clearly thought that they were drunk.

Thor had begun wildly looking about him, finding the same flaws in the scenery that he had. "The date, what is the date," Thor asked forcefully, a note of anxiety in his voice.

It must have appealed to Aramis because as he watched them carefully, he replied, "The first day of November, the sixteenth winter of King Louis XIII's reign."

"King?" Thor's voice was hoarse, for there had been no kings when they had last been here, no wood or cloaks or men that flirted with their eyes.

"What year is it," he grit out, and saw Porthos' expression turn from concern to wariness. Now he thought that they were insane.

Aramis, however, deigned to relieve them from their anguish and if Loki hadn't been so uneasy he would have been grateful. "1626."

Thor inhaled sharply and whispered, "By Urd's waters."

"Tis not possible," he answered the unspoken question, but Thor's breath seemed to tear from his chest as he whirled to him, his blue eyes uncertain and confused.

"Loki, this isn't right, this _isn't right."_

"Shut up, Thor," he hissed to hide his own distress. "Call the Bifrost."

Thor settled at the order, as he always did whenever he was flailing and it was Loki's job to be the strong one. They both looked up at the sky but the sun had Loki shielding from the glare and glancing away.

The two frowns that Loki saw made him remember that they weren't alone. It didn't matter now, the pair would see them disappear and they would be nothing more than a mysterious tale to tell around a Midgardian fire.

A small, slumbering part of Loki found that a little more unfortunate than a son of Odin's should.

He had expected to see a twist of disdain on Aramis' face, senseless as they probably looked. But Aramis had only questions, not judgements, and- was that, _pity_, in his warm eyes?

Midgardians were so weak.

"Heimdall," Thor cried to the skies, "Open the Bifrost!"

Deafening silence answered and Loki stared at Thor with uncertainty flooding his system. Thor's heavy palm fell upon his shoulder, normally he would have shrugged it off but he couldn't quite do it this time. The weight failed to reassure him; in fact, it started fear squirming in his stomach.

"Again," he urged desperately, and they looked upwards once more.

"Heimdall!" Thor's voice was pathetically quiet as he repeated, "Heimdall?"

Nothing happened, Thor had called and nothing happened. Heimdall hadn't answered and now they were- they were stuck on Midgard?

Shock overcame him like a wave of nausea. He suddenly felt disconnected from everything, as if his entire world had disappeared. In a way, it had, for Asgard was no longer within a call's reach, and only his foolish brother was there to anchor him.

Aramis took a tentative step towards them with a significant amount of concern written across his handsome features, but Porthos looked at them as if they were mad and said slowly, "Ohhhh-kay, we're gonna go."

"Porthos, we can't leave them."

"Yeah, we can, let's go."

"Porthos," Aramis scolded, and Loki's shock diminished a little as the bigger man sagged in amusing acceptance of the smaller. Satisfied, Aramis returned his attention to them, his expression soft and sympathising. "You can come with us if you have nowhere to go."

"No-!" he started quickly, needing time to plan their next move, but Thor latched onto friendliness in that infuriating way that he had, as if he were a hound starved of love.

"Yes, thank you, we're very grateful."

Porthos sighed heavily, but Aramis glanced at Loki's sudden grimace and something like a smile tugged at the man's sensual lips, as if he knew that Loki _wasn't _grateful, and that he didn't want to follow the pair anywhere.

His very way of life was being threatened, he couldn't restrain the almighty scowl that had formed on his brow, and yet despite all of that, he had the peculiar feeling of being pursued.

Pursued by a mere mortal who watched him with _hunger_ just barely hidden under concern.

* * *

**AN: And so ends chapter one, the beginning of a journey that has basically consumed us. No, that's a lie, it's totally consumed us. We hope you enjoyed it! Please review, let us know if you like where it's going/have any questions/want to say hello. All feedback is much loved and appreciated! - K  
**

**If you enjoy more standard Musketeers fare, check this profile for more great authors! - K and L**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I am apparently the chapter summary writer, behold my wonderful wit.**

**Thor and Loki visit the Musketeers' garrison and Porthos pouts about it. - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

Aramis found himself watching the dark haired man out of the corner of his eye as they walked. What had he said his name was again? Loki? He smiled at the thought, recalling the myths he had read once in a dusty tome. Loki and Thor were pagan gods. He wondered why their parents had chosen the names.

Then he decided it really didn't matter what they were called as he ran his eyes approvingly over the angle of the man's shoulders. They could've named him 'Tree Stump' and he would still be beautiful. He itched to dig his teeth into the spot where neck met shoulder and-

Porthos' elbow to his ribs stalled his train of thought and he glared. Porthos met his glare with one of his own.

"Where exactly are we taking them, Aramis?" he hissed, glancing furtively at the two men. "I don't want two madmen in my lodgings, no matter how attractive you think they are!"

Aramis flashed him a charming smile, wondering if Loki was watching. "Why Porthos," he purred, "A man would think you were jealous!"

Porthos' glare could have killed a man. Aramis smiled wider. "We will take them back to the garrison. We both still have rooms there, officially, no? They can stay there while we try and help them!" he finished triumphantly. He liked the idea of the handsome stranger sleeping in his bed. He idly wished he could be in it too.

"Treville isn't going to want them staying there, Aramis. Who the hell are we going to tell him they are?"

"You worry too much, my friend," Aramis said breezily, offering Loki a charming smile as he swept past. The man raised an eyebrow in disdain, lip curling. Aramis heard the bigger one, Thor, reprimand him for being unsociable. He fought the urge to chuckle.

It didn't take them long to make it back to the yard. It was deserted, so with a defiant look at Porthos, Aramis ushered the two strangers through the garrison and into his private rooms. He wasn't sure why they had these when they didn't live at the garrison, but he wasn't about to complain of Treville's generosity when it had just come in handy.

He shut the door behind his guests and turned a smile on them. Porthos sulked against the wall, glaring at him.

Their guests were examining the room. The bigger one was looking around with a broad smile, but Loki was peering at the furnishings critically.

"I'm afraid I must apologize for the state of the rooms," he said, staring directly at Loki. "They haven't seen much use. Judging by your fine clothes, I'd imagine you are used to finer accommodations."

"My clothes are probably worth more than this building," Loki said, but there was no real venom in the words. He sounded bored.

Aramis merely smiled at him. "That reminds me. You'll need to get out of those clothes." He enjoyed the blush that crept over Loki's pale features, highlighting the man's sharp cheekbones.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded. Thor looked totally unconcerned and indeed had even begun removing his fine armor. A heavy hammer hung at his waist.

"Your clothes draw too much attention, my friend. I gather you have lost your way. Until you know where you are going, it would be wise to pass unnoticed. Therefore, I advise you to strip." He smirked at Loki's outraged expression.

"I will not-" Loki began, sputtering, but Thor cut him off.

"We are among the Midgardians, brother. We must follow their ways."

"What do you expect us to wear?" Loki asked archly, lips pressing into a thin line. Aramis stared, entranced for a moment. Then he shook himself and moved across the room to the wardrobe. He flung it open and pulled out a clean shirt and a pair of breeches. Then he glanced contemplatively at Loki, admiring the way his own breeches fit his lithe legs snugly. He stuffed the spare pair back in the wardrobe, emerging with only the shirt.

"Porthos, can you fetch something for Thor?" he asked, eyeing the large man. Porthos sighed heavily and rolled his eyes but obeyed, disappearing into his own room next door.

"This should fit you," Aramis said, holding the folded shirt out to Loki, who stared at it as one might stare at a dead rat.

"I am not wearing that."

"Brother," Thor rumbled remonstratively. Loki rolled his eyes heavenward, his head falling back slightly. Aramis traced the length of his throat with hungry eyes.

"Fine. Give them to me," Loki snapped, an air of command in his tone. Aramis shivered, struggling not to flush.

"Can we not have some of those fine blue cloaks you wear?" Thor asked eagerly just as Porthos re-entered the room with a pile of clothes.

"Those are for Musketeers," he grunted, passing Thor the bundle.

"What is a Musketeer?" Thor asked curiously, piling his armor on the bed. Loki made no move to change, much to Aramis's chagrin. He hoped the man would change while they were in the room, but he seemed determined to wait. A shame.

"We're Musketeers," Porthos told him, indicating himself and Aramis. "We're elite soldiers. We serve the King."

Thor's eyes had lit up, and even Loki looked interested despite himself. "Soldiers!" Thor boomed. "That is fantastic! You must be excellent warriors!"

Porthos smiled at him, and Aramis knew he was softening towards their guests. It was hard not to like Thor, who was now questioning Porthos about the weapons he was proficient in.

Loki was another matter. Aramis liked him… well, lusted after him might be a better way to phrase it, but he could tell the man wasn't nearly as open as his brother. Thor was an open book, but Loki was a locked room. Aramis wanted to break inside and see what treasures those walls might be hiding.

Loki's eyes snapped around to meet his as if he could read his thoughts and Aramis fought to smile charmingly as the blood rushed to his cheeks. Those emerald eyes could well be his undoing.

He might be in trouble here.

* * *

Thor was blabbering on to that taller Midgardian about weapons or some such nonsense, and Loki was growing bored. The hungry brown eyes of the shorter man – Aramis– were beginning to make him self-conscious and hyper alert.

"Yes, yes, it's all very fascinating," he said, cutting through Thor's babbling. "But if we are going to change into these 'clothes'-" his lip curled on the word, "then I would appreciate some privacy."

"Of course," Aramis said, flashing another of those smiles that seemed to be comprised entirely of straight, white, sparkling teeth. He followed Porthos from the room with a grace that was almost enough to make Loki forget he was trying to hold onto his disdain for this planet he had become stranded on.

Loki could feel Thor grinning idiotically at him, so he ignored his brother completely and began changing out of his fine shirt and tunic into the simpler shirt Aramis had handed him.

He felt an odd, but not unwelcome, warmth inside at the thought that this was Aramis's shirt, but he stopped himself before he could follow that particular line of thinking. They were apparently trapped on Midgard with no way to get home. He didn't have time to dally with Midgardians, however handsome and charming they might be.

"I don't suppose you have a plan regarding how we will get home, brother?" he asked when he had finished changing. The material was coarser than he was used to, and it was unpleasantly loose on his slim frame, the neck gaping to reveal his collarbones. He pulled at it irritably.

Thor looked up from where he was struggling with his boots. "I'm sure Father will find us eventually," he shrugged.

Loki stared at him. He really shouldn't be surprised by Thor's more ridiculous ideas at this point. This whole trip had been his idea, had it not? And now they were stranded on Midgard, cut off from their home, perhaps forever, and Thor's brilliant plan was to _wait_?

"You think we should just wait for Father to swoop in and rescue us?" he asked, sarcasm dripping from his words. "What shall we do in the meantime? What do we tell the Midgardians? They'll want to know where we came from and why we are here."

Thor shrugged, the very picture of unconcern. "We tell them we're travellers and we got lost. We're not really heading anywhere specific, so we would be grateful if they would allow us to stay with them until we get our bearings in this strange country."

"That is a terrible plan, brother," Loki hissed, though a voice in the back of his mind said it wouldn't be such a tragedy to be stuck on Midgard for a time. Not when he was so blatantly desired.

"Do you have a better one?" Thor asked earnestly. Loki sighed heavily because no, he did not have a better plan. "Then we shall stay until you think of something or Father comes for us," Thor said, smiling broadly. He grabbed his cape from the floor and hung Mjolnir from his belt before heading to the door to beckon their hosts back in.

Loki sighed, swirling his own cloak about his shoulders. The familiar weight of the garment lent him strength, and he raised his head proudly, determined not to appear weak in front of these strangers.

He didn't miss the way Aramis's eyes roved appreciatively over his body when they re-entered, lingering on his exposed collarbones. He scowled at him so as not to betray the way his chest seemed to warm beneath the gaze.

"You two finished?" Porthos grunted, glancing askance at their bright cloaks. Loki stiffened, his chin rising to jut out proudly. He would not be judged by a mere mortal, no matter how handsome his friend.

"Yes, thank you!" Thor said happily. He looked like a puppy with a new toy as he smiled at the large man. "What shall we do now?"

Porthos frowned at him speculatively. "What do you mean? Don't you know what you're doing here? Why are you here, by the way?"

Loki spoke up before the oaf could spill some ridiculous story. "We are simple travellers. We came to meet some relatives of ours, but we seem to have become quite lost, and now we aren't sure where we are meant to go. We hoped to find somewhere to stay until our relatives find us." He glared at Thor, daring him to try to add anything to the story. Thor took the hint and stayed silent.

"You'll stay here, of course!" Aramis cried. Loki glanced over at him, somewhat surprised by the sincerity in his tone. Warm brown eyes smiled at him, and he looked away quickly.

"Just a minute," Porthos said, a warning in his voice. "Where are you from, anyway? You sound English."

Loki heard the edge to his tone and decided being English would not be good. "We were stationed there for a time," he said smoothly, thinking fast. He noted a large map pinned to the wall and caught the name of a city near the top. "We've just come from Calais."

He worried for a moment that Aramis might notice his deceptions, as he was watching his every move hungrily, but it seems the man was more concerned with making a good impression than analyzing Loki's motivations. Loki shot him a long, calculating gaze, noting the way the man stood up straighter and shot him a charming smile. He seemed worried about being found wanting.

Or, perhaps, not being found _wanted_.

"What do you mean, 'stationed there'?" Porthos asked curiously. "You soldiers?"

Thor answered before Loki had finished mentally cursing himself for his poor word choice. "We are part of a special regiment too," he informed them proudly.

"Mercenaries," Loki added quickly, worried these men would assume they served their king or worse, an enemy ruler. Aramis and Porthos shared a long look before Porthos shrugged.

"I got nothing against mercenaries as long as they aren't fighting against me," he said. "I suppose you can stay." Aramis grinned like a child with a piece of candy and Porthos shot him a long suffering look. It said, quite clearly, _you owe me._

Thor smiled happily. Loki merely scowled, hoping they found some way to get home soon. He did not wish to stay on this world with its small chambers and scratchy clothes, and this man who stared at him with such lust that it made Loki feel too warm inside.

"I'm sure you'll be very comfortable here," Aramis said, voice silky. Loki fought to keep his expression neutral as the man smiled at him again. This was going to be difficult. He followed as the others filed out of the room, trying to ignore the way Aramis's eyes roved over his body as he fell in behind Loki.

What had he done to deserve this?

* * *

**AN: Still liking it? Let us know! Bonus points for anyone who can tell just by our styles who's who. (Hint: we both have other stories in the Musketeers fandom, but we're not telling you who we are!) For reference, odd chapters are written by K and evens by L :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Aramis tries his hand at sparring with a master who's had centuries to train and something to prove, and Loki learns something distasteful. Enjoy! - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

Loki was definitely formed along the lines of the god he was named after, and Aramis was of the firm belief that such beauty should be admired. He certainly admired the long lines that were unfortunately hidden under clothes, although Loki managed to make even simple garments look expensive. It was something about the air of superiority that sat upon his shoulders like a falcon, as well as the proud beauty that entranced Aramis so.

He had never seen such a captivating combination. Normally, the male objects of his affection were, well, Porthos. And Porthos was broad and steady, like a mountain, as well as being warm and friendly and knew exactly how to crowd Aramis to make his breath catch.

But Loki? Loki was cold and haughty and still somehow managed to evoke the same reaction, though Aramis wasn't sure how he did it.

It occurred to Aramis that his usual methods of pursuit might need to be altered. He was used to his smiles immediately winning one in return, but this time, unless he counted the tantalizing amusement that he had first seen in Loki's eyes, he hadn't seen the man smile once.

No, this was going to take some thought and care, like approaching a predator that might decide to take a swipe. Aramis couldn't rely on his charms alone, not when he was trying to charm a figure of ice who clearly didn't know how to react to him.

As Aramis eyed the striking figure, he realized that his flirtatious advances hadn't even been overtly responded to apart from flashes of irritation and disdain.

Did that mean that the man _wasn't _as affected by Aramis as he was by him? With a sinking feeling, he wondered whether it was because Loki didn't even play that way, for that would just be too cruel.

A haughty sniff dragged his attention to a raised sooty eyebrow over cool, emerald eyes. "Can I help you?"

"I don't know," he answered smoothly. "_Can_ you?"

Loki rolled his eyes at the veiled lewd insinuation, but there was definitely a faint flush on his pale cheeks, and Aramis delighted in it.

It meant that he now knew what to do.

Loki might be the ice to Porthos' earth, but Aramis knew how to warm even the coldest of hearts. If he had to focus on teasing a smile out of Loki instead of merely expecting one, well…

Aramis had always liked a chase.

Porthos noticed his eager smile and scowled at it, saying under his breath, "You're plotting."

"Why," he replied innocently, "I have no idea what you're talking about, _mon ami._"

Porthos was distinctly unimpressed. "I saw that look last week, when you met that Comtesse at the Palace."

"Ah." He cast his mind back and said wistfully, "She was, indeed, _ravissante_. Her hair like rivers of gold, and eyes of a clear summer sky."

Aramis had pitched his voice slightly higher than necessary for Porthos' ear alone, and he definitely wasn't watching his friend as he spoke. Loki had stiffened almost imperceptibly and frowned when Thor chuckled at Aramis' passionate remarks.

His dark angel did not know what to make of him now. Excellent.

Porthos, however, seemed relieved all of a sudden, and clapped a fond hand on his shoulder. It automatically made Aramis draw in close to the man so that Porthos' arm lay snug along his back, and Porthos immediately grinned down at him as they entered the empty yard.

"We may as well make the most of the space," Aramis said aloud. It would be easier to talk in the open air than it would be in their rooms, and he wanted to learn as much as possible about the brothers. Especially whether or not Loki's slim form meant that he could bend a sword as well as he could his narrow waist.

As they stopped in the clearing, he leaned into Porthos in a move so familiar to them both it was practically unconscious, and Aramis suddenly became aware of calculating, emerald eyes roving over every place that he and Porthos touched.

_Interesting._

Thor, meanwhile, looked about with a jubilant chuckle. "This is where you train?"

"Yeah, we focus on swords rather than hammers, though," Porthos said with a wry nod at Thor's hip. "For all that looks pretty damn impressive."

Thor beamed and unhooked the hefty weapon from his belt. "This is Mjolnir; she was given to me by our father."

Porthos finally removed his arm but Aramis could only smile fondly because he knew what had prompted it. With a soft _shing_, Porthos drew his blade and said proudly, "Balizarde."

Aramis had dubbed it that, after the first time that Porthos had managed to land a bloodied strike on him. At the time it was because he had teased that Balizarde was the true winner, and not its wielder, but the name had stuck and hearing it always made them smile.

Thor observed their respective pride and joys with a happy nod, clearly delighted with Porthos. "They are truly excellent weapons, worthy of their names.

Loki had been silent the entire time, and now a sneer curled his lip as Porthos sheathed his blade and returned his arm to Aramis' back.

"Your swords do not look very strong," Loki remarked disdainfully.

Aramis felt Porthos stiffen and saw Thor scowl at his brother, but he jumped at the chance to ask innocently, "Do you know much of _swords, _then?"

Loki's gaze flicked to his and away again before the faint pink stain on his cheeks would be noticed by anyone other than Aramis – who had already learned the exact shade of his pale skin. "I am known to partake in the occasional bout, aren't I, Thor?"

"Well, yes," Thor began nervously, apparently unwilling to offend his hosts. "But that is not an excuse to disparage their forging. How would you know of their strength?"

"Indeed," Aramis said with a sly note to his voice that had Porthos beginning to grin. "Perhaps you would like to test them?"

Porthos laughed. It rumbled warmly along Aramis' neck and said, _make the little upstart pay._

Loki bristled as if he had heard, and Aramis had to blink away a sudden glare of reflected light that had Thor shifting uncomfortably for some reason.

From underneath his green cloak, Loki drew a golden scabbard, and from that he pulled the most exquisite sword that Aramis had ever seen. It shone in gleams of pale gold, matching the accoutrements that were on the discarded armour upstairs.

Loki's blade was slimmer than his own and had only the smallest of cross-guards. It was a deadly sign, for it meant that Loki didn't need brute strength or a fail-safe to win. Instead, it meant that he would strike like a snake, once and with a fatal outcome.

Aramis' hand fell to his rapier's hilt like a handshake with an old friend, and immediately Loki's eyes lit up keenly.

For a moment, Aramis almost thought that he saw that amazing armour on Loki's lean form, saw the black leather and air of absolute superiority, but he blinked and it was gone.

The proud arch of Loki's neck, however, was still there.

Porthos jerked his head away from them and Thor followed after a concerned glance at his brother. They settled against the wall and Aramis wondered whether Thor's worry was for Loki, or for him.

"Have you changed your mind?" Loki asked condescendingly, but Aramis could still see the coiled readiness just waiting to spring at him if he so much as twitched.

He tested that barely constrained power, whipping his sword up like lightning. He almost had to take a step back when Loki's swung to meet his in a quicker-than-sight movement.

Aramis tried to look for flaws, for gaps in his guard, but it wasn't just the fact that Loki was so coldly captivating that skewed Aramis' judgment. The problem was that there _were_ no flaws. Before him stood a master, and Aramis had thought Athos the only one capable of truly beating him.

Sparks of amusement lit those dark, green depths, and a thrill of suicidal fascination ran through Aramis at the sight.

He kept Loki's gaze but slowly ran his blade along the golden one, savoring the sweet song of swords and the sharp inhalation that Loki gave when he read the heat in his gaze.

Loki _moved, _a blur of green cloak and flashing eyes, and then Aramis' instincts kicked in and he had to deflect a metal point that would have ended up somewhere near his heart.

The sparks of light had gone. Aramis looked into the eyes of a predator and realized that he might just be looking at his death.

It was startling how truly taciturn Loki could look, how entirely inaccessible, how strangely _old. _

Following another instinct, Aramis glanced over at the side-lines and saw two things that told him how this bout should go.

The first was Porthos, a proud grin on his face that said he expected him to whip Loki into the dust. It warmed those parts of him that Loki had frozen, and Aramis held onto that flaring of heat when Porthos winked at him.

Of course, Porthos couldn't know that Loki's skill far surpassed his own, or that he really did not mind losing to a master whose cold gaze sent delicious chills up his spine.

The second of the two things was unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. It was Treville, standing in his office window and watching them with a critical eye.

There were strangers in his yard and their Captain wouldn't like that, but if Aramis was to continue in his conquering of the beautiful man, Loki and Thor would need to be welcome here.

What was it that Treville had grumbled to them recently? That they needed more Musketeers?

Well, these two definitely weren't, but then again, neither was D'Artagnan when he first arrived.

Porthos wanted him to win, to show Loki's derision up, but Treville wanted new blood and more bodies.

Aramis sent Porthos an apologetic look and thought, _I'm sorry, mon cher, but I think I've lost this one already._

And Aramis found that he didn't really mind, not when he might receive far sweeter prizes in the form of Porthos' clucking and Treville seeing that Loki was an excellent swordsman.

"Now," he murmured to the fallen angel across from him, "Where were we?"

Loki gave him a slash of a smile, bloodthirsty and fascinating. It occurred to Aramis that perhaps he shouldn't be chasing, he should be running.

But where was the fun in that?

* * *

The Midgardian had skill.

Aramis was quick, fighting with swooping flourishes that he could easily block and little darting movements that he could just about dodge. Some of his flashy attitude was conveyed in his sword-work, his blue cloak flaring dramatically with every showy sweep of his blade, an act which left him wide open to counter-attack.

But Aramis' true downfall lay in his _honour_.

Thor was the same, and it always made Loki want to roll his eyes in exasperation. If offered a stumble or a hesitation, Loki took it with the tip of his sword, but Thor? Thor would _wait _for his opponent to regain their balance, wouldn't dream of rushing in to secure a victory.

It was disgusting.

He deliberately over-stretched, practically offering his throat as he pretended to trip, and Aramis immediately pulled back with a gentlemanly air.

And then narrowed his eyes at him.

Aramis gave him what was definitely a reproving glare for literally putting his neck on the line, and Loki almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, he remembered what had encouraged him to engage in this pointless, if amusing, display of skill, and that succeeded in injecting a bit of malice into his next few strikes.

He had spent a lifetime hiding his illicit persuasions, and yet no more than five steps onto Midgard and he had bumped into the most flirtatious man he had ever come across.

Yes, he admitted that the attention had been nice, if completely surprising and entirely unwanted, but for so long had it been _Thor _who received all of the attention, _Thor _who was completely oblivious to the lingering looks he always received.

Loki had long grown used to the fact that his shoulders would never be as broad as his brother's, nor his muscles as ridiculously large, but at least he had a brain and a quick tongue to match it.

So, yes, the attention had been nice.

Which is why the realization had hit like Mjolnir did when Thor forgot to hold himself back, when Loki had put the pieces together and _seen. _The flustered looks on the pair's faces when they had first arrived, the way one strengthened and smiled when in contact with the other.

Aramis and Porthos were an _item._

He had gotten it all wrong, the heated glances weren't for _him, _they were for _Thor, _as they always were.

It was bad enough that Thor basked in female attention, now he was to do so in male, too? That just wasn't fair, and it made rage surge in Loki's veins.

Hence why he was ensuring that Aramis _worked _for this paltry fight, and at the end of it he would humiliate him, for no one interfered in his business without paying for it. Least of all attractive Midgardians with warm eyes and quick feet, even if Loki did enjoy the way _this _Midgardian was beginning to pant.

His own enjoyment annoyed him; he didn't want to feel that little burst of heat in his stomach as Aramis focused solely on him.

One slice, that was all it took: one too-forceful sweep because he had been watching a drop of sweat trail down Aramis' neck and forgot to make allowances for the slightly slower mortal. A sliver of resistance against the tip of his sword and then a streak of red opened across tanned collarbone.

Aramis pulled back with a hiss and, startlingly, the noise distressed him. A tendril of guilt made him automatically raise his hand and he felt that familiar rush of magic, savored the glorious tingle of power for a single, heady moment. And then Thor and Porthos both moved, but for separate reasons, and he _remembered._

They were stuck on Midgard.

"Brother," Thor whispered forcefully.

"I know," he bit back. He didn't appreciate the reminder, of their effective prison or how close he had come to healing a foolish mortal just because he didn't like the sound of his pain.

Porthos, however, apparently liked it less, because he had gone straight to Aramis and used his hands to gently tilt Aramis' chin away and roughly jerk aside his shirt. The big man hissed in sympathy and his fingers lingered a little too long on Aramis' jaw.

Loki sneered at Porthos' back. Yes, the two were definitely an item, it was painfully obvious now.

"Apologise," Thor reprimanded, much to his shocked disgust.

"What? No, why-"

"Of course not," Aramis interrupted cheerfully as Porthos walked away from them. "We agreed on first blood."

Loki looked curiously at Aramis, for they had never said any such thing, but if it would excuse him from Thor's misguided reprimand, then so be it.

"Yes, we did."

Thor relaxed and folded his arms, a smile breaking across his face. "Oh, that is good. I have never seen someone hold out for so long against my brother. You did well."

Aramis smiled and inclined his head in gratitude, that strange hat still somehow perched on his head. "I'm afraid I'm a poor show," he said wryly, uncoupling the toggles of his leather jacket when Porthos reappeared to hand him a wet cloth. "Our friend Athos is the true swordsman."

"Best I've ever seen," Porthos added, and then, strangely, caught his eye for a second that seemed to hang for eternity. "Best _anyone's_ ever seen."

_Challenge, _it was a whisper over Loki's skin, coming from the shadowed, judging eyes of Porthos but with the promise of a man he had never met.

He had no idea why he had garnered the dark man's distaste; perhaps he could tell that something was amiss. Or, he amended with a sudden urge to smirk, maybe Aramis _had _meant those charming smiles for him, after all.

Not that he wanted that, of course.

"You do yourself a disfavor!" Thor boomed happily. "You were excellent!"

"I try," Aramis replied modestly, "But my skill lies with the musket."

"A musket?" Thor asked interestedly, but Loki couldn't quite echo the statement, despite his own curiosity flaring, for something else had utterly caught his attention.

Aramis nodded distractedly as he pulled aside his shirt and bared his neck, carefully wiping away the faint traces of blood that Loki had brought to his fragile human skin.

Loki became fixated on tan chest and muscled shoulders, on glinting water and a trail of dark hair that disappeared into a cotton shirt, on cursing the man for attracting him so when they were _stranded _on this – quite literally – godforsaken planet.

He needed to remember that. He needed to remember that Thor was relying on him to find a way back home, and even if his brother wanted to make pretty with the Midgardians, _Loki _was a respected mage and had no time for mere mortals.

"And what about you, Porthos," Thor asked with his usual sickening friendliness, forcing Loki back to the issue at hand, "What is your skill?"

"I like the sword-" Porthos began matter-of-factly, but was interrupted by Aramis' snort of denial.

"Porthos favours hand-to-hand." Aramis' tone suddenly turned sympathetic as he continued forlornly, "But he never has anyone to spar with."

For some reason, Porthos threw Aramis a confused look even as he nodded in agreement. Loki, however, watched the exchange with a souring expression, because he knew that his brother was just about to jump for joy.

And then he saw what was happening, for Porthos grinned in delighted surprise at Thor's exuberant offer of a wrestle, and a sly, anticipatory smile came across Aramis' face.

The striking sight made him scowl and he realised that the little tease was going to enjoy this fight_._

Loki sighed and cast another glance at the skies. The day already felt to have lasted half a millennium; would it _ever _end?

* * *

**AN: Reviews are the lifeblood of fanfics, so please let us know if you're enjoying ours! - K  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Porthos wrestles a mountain, Aramis admires the scenery, and Loki meets Scruff and Puppy. - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Aramis couldn't keep the delighted smile from his face as he watched Porthos go through his usual stretches, muscles rippling beneath his shirt. Both he and Thor had stripped away their outer layers until they stood only in shirt and breeches, and Aramis would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying the show.

Not that the display in front of him was making him forget the one standing beside him, arms crossed, scowling at the preparations.

Loki had a sour expression on his face and his entire body was coiled as tightly as a spring. Aramis could almost feel the tension radiating off of him. How he wished to dig his fingers into those supple shoulders and help him relax…

He swallowed hard, trying to drive the image of Loki's bare shoulders beneath his hands from his mind, focusing instead on the bright, eager smile lighting Porthos's handsome features.

It wasn't often Porthos had the chance to fight someone with even close to the same level of skill as he possessed, and if Thor was as good as his graceful motions and hulking build suggested, Porthos might have at last met his match.

"Are you both ready?" Aramis called, seeing that Porthos had finished his warm up. Loki shifted beside him, still scowling.

Porthos nodded. "I am ready, friend!" Thor boomed, deep voice ringing with excitement. Aramis saw Loki's mouth twist up in a derisive sneer.

"Then begin," Aramis said, smiling wickedly as the two men squared up to one another.

This was going to be good.

It was Porthos who moved first, as Aramis knew it would be. He feinted in, aiming a jab at Thor's ribs that turned into an uppercut to the jaw as Thor dodged. But Thor was fast, as fast as Porthos, and he danced back with a speed that belied his bulk.

Aramis wondered if he was drooling, or if he only felt like it.

Thor came back with a roundhouse that seemed to almost whistle through the air. Porthos blocked it, staggering back a half step under the force. He locked Thor's wrist and twisted his shoulders, allowing Thor's own momentum to carry him past. Thor recovered almost instantly and turned, his broad grin matching Porthos's own.

This was going to be _very_ good.

Porthos darted in, lowering his shoulders as if to catch Thor's midsection in a tackle, but Thor stood his ground and allowed himself to be rammed. He then grabbed Porthos's waist and flipped him through the air to land crashing in the dust.

Aramis's jaw dropped.

Porthos lay there for a long moment, looking for the life of him utterly stunned, and then a grin began to form on his face that could chase clouds from the sun. He was positively beaming, and it sent rays of warmth chasing through Aramis.

He wondered how Loki could sneer in the face of such blatant happiness. Though that sneer did send shivers down his spine...

Porthos rolled lightly to his feet, cracking his neck in a way that threw his jawline into sharp relief. Honestly, it ought to be illegal. Aramis could see the subtle lengthening of his stance, the tightening of muscles that meant Porthos was about to fight in earnest. He had only seen this a few times in his life, and it was amazing to behold.

Porthos drew back and lashed out in a move almost too fast to follow, launching a high kick at Thor's chest. Thor twisted to the side, using his hip to knock Porthos's foot off course so he landed awkwardly. Porthos allowed himself to fall to the dust once more, sweeping Thor's feet out from beneath him as he fell.

The faint sound of a door opening somewhere behind him made him drag his hungry gaze away from the wrestling. He glanced over his shoulder to see Treville had stepped out of his office and was watching the match with an impassive expression. Aramis hid a smile and turned away, giving no indication he had noticed the captain.

He wanted him to see this.

In the few seconds he had been distracted, Thor and Porthos had ended up struggling together on the ground in a way that looked less like wrestling and more like something else entirely. Aramis's throat went rather dry. This was turning into a wonderful show.

Porthos momentarily gained the upper hand, striving to pin Thor to the ground. Thor writhed beneath him, demonstrating far more flexibility than was decent.

Aramis found himself wondering if flexibility was a family trait.

He watched the match avidly, admiring the delicious display of strength, the muscles glistening with sweat in the sunlight, bulging as the two men strained against one another, laughing even as they vied for dominance.

It was a stunning display, really, but even as he watched Aramis found himself craving something else entirely, lean lines and haughty sneers instead of bulk and booming laughs.

Aramis appreciated Porthos and Thor's muscular forms, but he mostly liked the assertive nature that came with the stature, their ability to make him feel utterly protected even though he didn't need it.

Loki was all lean lines and agile as a cat, and yet that assertive nature snarled at him every time he caught those godly green eyes, despite the lack of obvious strength in his slim shoulders. Instead, there was a steeliness to his spine, an aura of _something _that made Aramis' pulse buck and crave cruel lips at his throat. When he'd had that sword in his hand…

Loki didn't need physical power to bend him to his whim, because it only took one smirk for Aramis to decide that there was nothing he would rather do than offer himself on a platter.

And so he watched Porthos trying to pound Thor into the dust, and smiled, and felt the warmth of desire in his stomach, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Porthos was no longer what he _most_ desired, not when a great deal of it was due to the cold sneer at his side.

* * *

Loki felt as if ice was forming in his very veins as he was subjected to this pathetic wrestling match. He had no interest in watching his brother show off his prodigious skills. He dealt with enough of that on Asgard.

It didn't help that the ridiculous mortal beside him was all but drooling over the display.

From the moment the fight had begun, Aramis had watched the pair with ravenous eyes, an elated grin plastered across his handsome face. He was like a dog panting after a bone. It was disgusting, base, vulgar.

Loki wondered why it bothered him so much.

The same interest with which he had appraised Loki before was on his face once again as he watched the pitiful display of male dominance happening in front of them.

There's an _oomph_ as Thor crushes Porthos to the ground and Loki watches Aramis sway forward, eyes fixed on the broad shoulders of his brother. The twinge of jealousy this evokes in his breast is ruthlessly crushed.

He has no time for sentiment.

Still, as he watched Aramis enjoying the broad shoulders and bulging biceps of the pair, he was painfully aware of how much he _isn't_ built like them. He might or might not have allowed a small sound of annoyance to slip past his curled lips, and suddenly Aramis turned the full force of that hungry gaze on him, and Loki was _drowning_.

He expected the man to look back to the match at once, but Aramis's stare lingered, tracing along Loki's jaw in a way that made his stomach clench. Aramis smiled then, a small, taunting thing, and Loki knew this smile was for him, not for Thor, not for Porthos. Clearly this man was dangerous and unstable, because he did not seem to know what he wanted.

Nevertheless, the unexpected attention was like stepping into a sunbeam, and when Aramis at last turned back to the match, Loki was left feeling bereft.

He tried to focus on the two men squirming shamefully in the dirt, but it didn't rid his mind of a warm smile and laughing brown eyes. Thor managed to get the mortal into some sort of hold, and Loki had to give him credit: Thor had kept himself in check better than he himself had, careful to use only a fraction of his real strength so as not to injure the fragile human now struggling to free himself.

At last Porthos tapped Thor's arm, a resigned expression on his face. Thor released him immediately and clambered to his feet, offering a hand to help the other man up. There was his precious honor at work once more.

"_Mon Dieu_, what a match," Aramis called, voice laced with barely veiled desire. Loki noted the way Porthos's eyes flashed up to meet the smiling man's.

"Indeed it was," Thor boomed happily. "I have not had such an enjoyable contest in some time, my friend. You are a worthy opponent!"

Porthos smiled warmly at him, apparently taking no shame in his defeat. "First time I've lost in hand-to-hand in years," he said ruefully. Loki found his humility jarring. Defeat was shameful, not something to smile about. What was _wrong_ with these mortals?

"You did marvellously," Aramis told Porthos gallantly.

Loki felt spite boil within him. "I don't know what you expected the outcome to be," he snapped irritably. "Thor is clearly taller."

Thor shot him a disapproving look and Porthos visibly bristled.

"Yes, well, size isn't everything," Aramis replied smoothly, stepping forward to brush the dust from Porthos's shoulders, his graceful hands lingering overly long. Loki didn't miss the way the larger man leaned into the touch, allowing Aramis to soothe his bruised pride with a few compliments about the match.

Loki glanced away, lips twisting once more. After having that blinding smile directed at him, he had almost forgotten that the pair were _together_.

He hated that a mere mortal could make his stomach sink with a disappointment he hadn't felt in millennia.

A bright young voice heralded the arrival of more of these 'Musketeers,' and Loki turned to see two men walking across the courtyard to them, one smiling like a younger, darker Thor and the other eyeing them with a suspicion Loki could respect.

"Aramis, Porthos!" the young one called, ridiculous grin still plastered across his eager face. Honestly, it was sickening.

"Who's this?" the older one asked bluntly. Loki found the abrupt tone rather refreshing after the amount of charm and teasing he'd been putting up with. There was an edge to this one that told Loki he would do well to keep an eye on him, and Loki always appreciated that in an opponent.

"And what happened there?" he asked, an edge to his tone, taking in the long, shallow cut just visible on Aramis's collarbone. Aramis waved him off with a smile.

"Simply an invigorating match with our new friends here," he said, warm brown eyes finding Loki's. There was a teasing quality to his voice, a slight suggestiveness that made Loki's cheeks feel warm.

"Oh?" the shaggy one asked, cool eyes assessing Loki. He huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes or openly sneer at his unkempt appearance. He supposed he ought to at least attempt to be civil. They could be stuck here a long time.

The thought sent an unpleasant wave of anxiety through his stomach, but he swallowed it down in favor of learning who these newcomers were and whether it would be worth trying to remember their names.

"Athos, D'Artagnan, allow me to introduce you to Loki and his brother, Thor," Aramis said formally. Loki tried not to be too pleased that Aramis had said his name first. No one ever bothered giving him precedence over Thor.

"It is a great honor to meet the comrades of our very gracious hosts!" Thor thundered, beaming at D'Artagnan as he shook his hand vigorously. Loki was willing to bet his fingers were being compressed in ways bones did not take kindly to.

"How nice to meet you, too," Athos said dryly. "What are they doing here, exactly?"

"They were lost," Porthos informed him. "Aramis, the charmer, offered to let them stay here until they find who they're looking for. They're good."

"Good?" the youngest one asked, massaging his hand. "Did you fight them?" He eyed Thor's bulk with awe.

"Loki bested me with the sword, and Porthos took his first fall in years," Aramis told them, smirking, though Loki noted the way he clapped a hand to Porthos's shoulder as he stepped forward, softening the remark. It lingered a moment too long and Loki's lip curled again.

"That _is_ good," Athos's eyebrows raised, and Loki sensed there were words conveyed with the expression if only he knew how to read it. He hated puzzles.

"Was there something you wanted?" Porthos asked curiously. "A mission?" Thor's expression brightened hopefully in a way that made Loki want to kick him. Even if there was a mission, they certainly would not be going!

Athos shook his head. "We were hoping Treville might have something for us to do," D'Artagnan said, his tone a touch petulant.

"Actually, I do," a voice called from above. Thor's smile widened and Loki bit back a groan. _Wonderful_.

* * *

**AN: Thank you for reading; please feed us sweet sweet reviews so that we may feast on more Lokimis love. (I hope you're enjoying these notes, I'm going to make them all silly so that you have to laugh and make them professional :3) - K  
**

**^That was a challenge from my coauthor. Little does she know I shall leave them all exactly as they are. HA ;P - L  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: "Loki, do you wanna do a mission? Come on let's go and play!"**

**Most of the places in this fic are real places in France, with painstaking work being done to figure out distances and horse-gaits to get there. Marteaux Forest, however, is a creation used as a waypoint for Lagny-sur-Marne.**

**And Yggdrasil sits in the Milky Way, obviously. - K  
**

**Just so you know, we've written an extensive amount of ridiculous parodies involving Lokimis, one of which is, in fact, "Do you want to build a snowman?" - L**

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Aramis held his breath when he saw Athos look up at the balcony in a silent question, but then Treville inclined his head and said, "All of you."

He grinned in relief at an elated Thor, who clearly wanted to join them as much as Aramis did. Athos merely shrugged, ever neutral, and gallantly gestured for Loki to walk ahead of him. It amused Aramis to see Loki hesitate, but he heard the murmur of surprised gratitude that followed.

It was also interesting to see Athos' raised brow when he noticed the gleaming rapier hung at Loki's waist. Athos would bide his time, as he always did, but Loki would find himself at the tip of a Musketeer's sword, sooner or later.

Aramis couldn't wait.

The Captain's office wasn't large to begin with, but it seemed positively cramped with all seven of them in there. Treville followed his usual pattern of waiting until they had settled, for the laughter to pass, and then he watched them quietly, weighing them up with whatever task he had.

Thor's enthusiasm tempered to seriousness under Treville's cool stare, but Loki fidgeted uncomfortably until Aramis deliberately bumped him and earned a hot glare. Something about their Captain must be familiar to the pair, for their reactions seemed learned. Perhaps they were reminded of their own superior, and Aramis idly wondered whether they were missed.

"Extra hands couldn't come at a better time; I've heard some disturbing reports about bandits up by Lagny-sur-Marne."

It was natural for them to let Athos ask the questions. His calm and calculated control always knew what to ask and what to say. "How is that disturbing? We've been there before."

"They hadn't banded up under one flagship before," Treville explained with a sigh as the four of them murmured in surprise. "Yes, there are at least two separate groups, possibly three. I have no idea what's caused it, but they're a formidable force, now."

"Safety in numbers," Loki remarked quietly. "Do they have a leader?"

Athos and Treville shared a glance that wouldn't mean anything to anyone that didn't know them. Aramis knew what it meant, it spoke of being surprised and impressed, that Loki's question was an intelligent one, for a leader would turn rabble into an army.

Treville shrugged. "Not that I know of, but on the off-chance that they do, I want you all to go." He regarded them each in turn, his eye lingering on Athos as he said, "Be wary, keep a watch, and come back in one piece."

"Of course, Captain," Athos replied with his usual half-smile.

Thor was surprisingly quiet as they left, but beamed when Porthos asked aloud, "We have horses for them?"

Athos nodded. "I fear we'll need mounts if the group is that large, and it wouldn't do to not outfit our new comrades."

Aramis' thoughts warmed a little more than was called for as he considered the casually dressed pair at his side. He coughed and remarked, "They have armour but, ah, it might be best for it to be worn outside of Paris, _tu comprends?_"

D'Artagnan's eyebrow rose at Thor, who ducked his head and said, "My brother and I wear armour specially forged for us. It is, perhaps, a little attention-grabbing."

"A little?" Porthos asked with a laugh. "Thor wears _chainmail _like it's cotton, I've never seen the like."

"Nor I," Aramis added slyly, and pretended not to notice the scowl that crossed Loki's face. "It can be fetched quickly enough."

By the time they arrived, the stables were mostly empty except for their four mounts and the assortment of fresh horses that could be swapped out for long missions. Aramis kept his eye on the brothers as he tended to his own beloved mount, and smiled when Thor immediately gravitated towards the largest stallion of the bunch.

Loki, however, took his time. He waited for his brother to loudly disappear before wandering through the throng of horseflesh, letting the animals come to him rather than the other way around. It was fascinating to watch, especially when a sweet-tempered mare butted him softly and practically walked into the offered reins.

Evidently, there was some magic at work here, although Aramis could understand the allure.

He didn't think he would wear any reins, though.

Loki stepped gracefully into the stirrups, his posture perfect and striking. Aramis' breath caught when they walked into the sun, for Loki looked like a prince, haughty and uncaring. Except, before Aramis could completely write him off as cold to the core, he heard quiet words of affection said towards his mount and noticed the small smile playing about his cruel lips.

Loki was truly an enigma, and Aramis couldn't wait to work it out.

Once they were bundled down with supplies and armour, their company took on the frisky air that accompanied a sunlit task and the banter between friends. D'Artagnan's happiness at finally not being the newcomer made Aramis reply teasingly, "You still have the worst seat on a horse, _mon fils_."

D'Artagnan scowled at him, drawing a laugh, but Thor pulled his stallion up alongside the boy's and commented, "I'm afraid my brother and I are at a disadvantage, we do not know this area."

Aramis smiled when d'Artagnan puffed up in happy pride and offered to detail their route. Thor was being sweet, and it made Aramis share an amused look with Athos. But where one brother was fitting in well, the other rolled his eyes and sighed despairingly, as if he was quite disgusted with the camaraderie.

"You ride very well, Loki," he remarked innocently, and it was Porthos' turn to roll his eyes as Loki preened.

The journey passed in a similar fashion, the little jabs and jokes that often resulted in someone scowling and someone laughing. Contentment settled in Aramis' chest and he realised that this felt right, for all Loki didn't seem to be enjoying himself, his green eyes occasionally sparked with humour before being wiped clear again.

Loki didn't fool Aramis, he knew that there was a way to warm the ice; he just had to find it.

Night had fallen by the time they neared, and it was agreed that they would camp in Marteaux Forest to approach Lagny-sur-Marne with daylight on their sides. Thor graciously offered himself and Loki to keep watch that night, to which the four of them readily accepted – having more members was certainly providing more perks. Loki scowled, but when Athos looked questioningly at him, he raised his brow in reluctant acceptance.

Sleep was hard in finding. Aramis couldn't stop thinking about the delicious riddle that sat mere feet away from him. He knew that he should be resting in case they were as outnumbered as they feared, tomorrow, but instead he was distracted by a hushed conversation from across the fire.

Thor's voice was questioning and Loki's responses were angry; it lasted until Loki hissed something that sounded derogatory before disappearing into the trees. Aramis stirred, not entirely wanting to pry, but mostly not wanting anyone to leave the safety of their camp.

He waited for Thor to sit down before asking, "Is everything okay?"

"Oh," Thor said, startled, and seemed to grasp for something. "Loki is, ah, patrolling. I wouldn't startle him."

Aramis paused at what would have sounded like a warning if it hadn't come from Thor's concerned blue eyes. "He... does not like travelling?"

"No," Thor replied slowly, something like sadness crossing his face. "My brother isn't used to travelling with anyone but me, and even I frustrate him from time to time."

Aramis didn't like the forlorn tone to Thor's low rumble, the sign of rejected affection. "Perhaps it's time he learned how to share," he replied with quiet amusement.

Thor looked up in surprise but then he grinned. "Good luck, do not say I didn't warn you."

As Aramis laughed low in his throat and went to walk past the broad man, Thor's hand rose almost self-consciously. "Thank you, Aramis."

He smiled at the genuine warmth to Thor's voice. "I know you will both be an asset to our little family."

Thor beamed suddenly but then ducked his head to add, "Not just that, for trying to befriend my brother."

_Befriend, _that was entirely too tame for what Aramis planned to do to the cold, beautiful man.

But a blessing was a blessing.

Aramis gave Thor his most charming smile and replied, "You're very welcome."

It was a good thing that his friends weren't awake, for they would immediately know that he was - as Porthos so delightfully put it - _plotting. _Thor, however, was blessed with ignorance, and returned his attention to the flickering fire with a pleased nod.

Aramis traversed the trees with the learned skills of a man who was wary of creaking floorboards and over-protective fathers. He was fairly certain that he wasn't sneaking up on the elusive Loki, and if he was, it was because Loki might spook and run, like a deer.

Aramis had always been a good hunter.

A flash of light had him blinking back spots, but it was gone as soon as it had arrived. Aramis cautiously followed the direction he thought it had come from, concerned that Loki had been spotted or, god forbid, hurt.

What he saw instead, stopped him in his tracks. Sat in a circular clearing of trees, bathed in the moonlight and an air of serenity, was his angel.

Loki didn't look dark anymore; he looked redeemed, on high, bright like diamonds and just as chillingly sharp. His profile was picked out in stark shadows and limned in light; his eyes were closed as his chest moved in controlled, deep breaths.

Aramis felt frozen to the spot, stunned by the sheer beauty of the moment, and completely incapable of disturbing the silence. He realised with a piercing clarity that had his heart stuttering, that where Loki had been lifted, he had fallen further than ever before.

He wasn't sure whether he would recover from this.

* * *

Loki felt the moon sink below the horizon and disappointment bloomed in his chest.

Hours he had spent in quiet meditation, using the well of magic that resided within him to search for something familiar. He _knew _that Yggdrasil was there, somewhere, but he couldn't find it. That absence of contact was vaguely terrifying, for he had been able to feel it from the moment his mother had first shown him how.

Now, bereft, he felt even more alone than he had before.

It hadn't helped that Thor had protested his meditation the night before. As soon as Loki had known the Musketeers had fallen asleep, he had tried to leave, but Thor had faltered in confusion, asking, "Why, brother?"

"I will not wait for father to find us," he had replied simply.

"Do you dislike them so much?"

Loki had followed Thor's gesture that encompassed the four sleeping forms and sneered, "They are Midgardians, we are not. What can they _possibly _have to offer us?"

Thor had shaken his head sadly, as if there was something that Loki didn't understand, and so he had strode off to find a quiet spot and attempt to reach home.

It hadn't worked.

It was worse than when they had been children and had sneaked out of the palace. Thor would get them lost or into danger, and would try to fight his way out until he grew despondent. Then it would be up to Loki to use _his _skills, tapping into his magic to keep them safe and find the way back.

Thor hadn't grown despondent yet, which was strange, but surely it was just proof that Thor had faith in him to get them out, and he would. He just needed to find Yggdrasil.

To do that, he knew that he needed to travel further and continue his meditations. He would like to leave and find it on his own, but he couldn't risk Thor running off with these idiots, and so he would use their vaguely interesting missions for his own uses.

He didn't know why he had joined in on the discussion in their superior's office, especially after the man had seemed disturbingly similar to the Allfather. It was the judging gaze and expectant silence, and the way Thor immediately straightened and seemed to withdraw from him.

But then Aramis had stumbled into his side and it had given him enough of a distraction to break out of the regressive memory, made him see the concern that their captain had for his men – genuine concern that set him apart from his father.

Midgard was full of sentimentality and hope, and most of the time it sickened Loki. Sometimes, however, it made him see how truly cold, how _dreamless_ Asgard could be.

Loki heard movement and opened his eyes to see the surly one stir first. Athos dragged a hand over his eyes and then frowned tiredly at him to say, "Why didn't you wake me for the watch?"

Loki shrugged and fed another branch to the fire. "I was not tired."

Athos sat up and his frown deepened. Loki bristled under that piercing gaze, but then he realised that Athos was concerned, not angry. "You will be later today. We are a team, Loki, we share duties."

Loki blinked in amazement; no one ever spoke to him that way, certainly not for his own benefit. Even Thor just got angry with him and yelled, or worse, sighed sadly. Never soft encouragement that a small part of him felt obliged to follow.

Fortunately, he didn't have to think up a reply because Porthos growled, "Not more morning people, please. Aramis and D'Artagnan are enough."

As if to corroborate with that almost pleading remark, D'Artagnan sprang out of bed with all the brightness of youth, and began to loudly fold his bed roll. Porthos groaned loudly, a sentiment that both Thor and Aramis echoed. The latter surprised him, had Porthos not said that Aramis was chipper in the morning?

Loki scowled at himself when he realised he was wondering what had kept the pair up, and that the thought made him feel sick to his stomach.

He stayed stubbornly silent as the four Musketeers roused themselves and began following a routine unknown to him and Thor. It was quite soothing to watch; each of them had their own tasks and carried them out in silence but with the occasional joke as they fully awakened.

He and Thor were never like this, and they had travelled together for nigh on a millennium.

Athos collected all of their water-skins and, after a brief glance at Thor who was kicking dirt over the fire-pit, approached him and asked, "Would you mind filling these at the river, Loki?"

Thor stilled to watch over his shoulder, and Aramis sent him a sidelong look as he tended the horses. Loki huffed a sigh and thrust out his hand, "Fine."

He was gifted with a tiny twitch of Athos' lip and a charismatic smile from Aramis.

Loki wasn't pleased; it definitely wasn't warmth in his stomach as he strode in the direction of rushing water. He was doing this because Athos hadn't ordered him to, he had asked. Besides, they all needed water, didn't they?

With his hands dripping wet and his magic checking for taint in the fresh liquid, he almost didn't notice the faint snapping noise to his left.

He definitely noticed the one on his right.

_Bandits._

There was a noise like a small explosion from both sides, and then Loki was forced to the floor with a heavy weight on his chest. He snapped his head up to see Aramis' handsome face only a hand-span away and frowning in concentration.

Another explosion that he felt shudder through the machine in Aramis' arms to his torso, and then a grunt from the trees told him that the mark had been met. On the other, Thor burst through the trees to smash Mjolnir on a man's face, before looking up guiltily to check that none of the Musketeers had seen his supernatural strength.

As Thor nodded at him and ran off back to the camp, Loki sighed and let his head tip back to the ground, trying not to laugh when Aramis said silkily, "Come here often?"

"Get off of me," he snarled, but Aramis merely smiled at the flush that he knew had bloomed on his own cheeks.

"Of course, _mon ange_," Aramis replied smoothly and took his sweet time standing up.

Loki took great pleasure in ignoring the offered hand and strange words, and instead dusted himself off, turning in a flash when a dark figure approached their side. He swept his sword in and out, the bandit falling easily and leaving them alone again.

He had expected Aramis to appear frustrated, possibly disgusted. He had not expected admiration and a flash of heat that immediately sliced its way to his gut in a similar way to his sword.

"Be off with you," Loki muttered, annoyed at how much he wanted to smile.

Aramis swept his hat from his head and bowed before smirking at him and disappearing into the trees.

Arrogant mortal.

Loki continued cutting a swathe through the never-ending stream of bandits, occasionally coming across one of the Musketeers who treated him as if he were one of them, calling out commands and compliments alike.

It irked him, so he went off on his own again. He didn't understand the strange group, how accepting they were despite them being strangers.

He surprised a brigand who hadn't heard his soft footfalls and jerked when a line of fire opened along his own cheek. Whirling to find the source, he froze when he saw a man aiming a weapon at him. It smoked and Loki knew that it had to be the cause of the burn, and his lip twitched into a sneer.

They _dared_ touch him?

There was too much distance for him to do anything except throw his hand out and force his magic from his fingers, delighting in the euphoria that accompanied it. The ball of light began its destructive path but Loki had to twist his fingers in panic when Aramis appeared to kill the man without a second thought.

The light guttered as Loki took an inhaled breath, strange relief flooding him when he saw that he hadn't accidentally hurt Aramis, who merely wiped his blade clean and gifted Loki with a gleaming smile, ignoring his scowl. This marked the second time that the attractive man had appeared out of nowhere to defend him, and Loki was becoming tired of it.

Especially tired of how it made his chest tighten bizarrely.

Aramis' hand went to his hat to do that ridiculously perfect bow, but as soon as his fingers touched the material, he jerked and hissed, a sharp noise distressingly similar to when Loki had bloodied his chest.

Concern gripped him, but he didn't know what to do to help the charming mortal. His own fingers lifted, magic sparkling at the tips, but he couldn't use it here. Loki's one skill that he loved, the one that Thor relied on; he couldn't _use _it, not on Midgard.

He shouldn't.

A roar that sounded like a bear ripped through the trees, and Porthos arrived just in time to catch a collapsing Aramis as Loki looked numbly on.

He shouldn't.

* * *

**AN: So many times have I complained about reading angst and it making me desperate for more chapters, and here I am writing a ridiculous amount of it. Sorrynotsorry, beloved readers, but please review and scream and shout at us! - K  
**

**^Any angst she writes is probably my fault. Whoops. I'm a bad influence. - L**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** **Loki goes all magic 8 ball on Aramis, Scruff shoots the mystery man, Porthos turns into a minotaur and does his best to headbutt Loki, and Aramis begins global warming with his blanket heat. - K  
**

**^Dunno wtf that all means but it's funny so I'm leaving it. - L  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX  
**

It was all he could do not to fling the magic at the falling man right then and there, consequences be damned. He quashed the instinctive reaction ruthlessly, yanking the tendrils of magic back to him before they materialized.

He saw Thor watching him and wanted to snarl. No, he would not betray their secret.

Not even for the man with the warm, smiling eyes.

That thought jerked him back to the present and he hurried forward to join the group rapidly forming around the downed Musketeer, trying to force his expression to one of neutrality.

The relief that gripped him when he saw that Aramis was awake, alert, and trying to insist Porthos let him up was shocking in its intensity. How had this man wormed his way past his defenses so quickly? He was disgusted by his own weakness.

_Sentiment_, a voice chided in the back of his mind.

"Really, it's just a scratch," Aramis protested as Porthos frantically examined his upper back, hands coming away stained red.

"How bad?" Athos asked tersely, ignoring the injured man's remark.

Porthos breathed out a long sigh. "He's got a cut running right between his shoulder blades," he said, sounding relieved. "Needs stitching, but it won't be fatal as long as we do it soon. How did this happen?"

"He was protecting my brother," Thor rumbled before Aramis could answer. Loki stared, recalling the way the man had knocked him to the ground. Had that wound truly been for his benefit?

Porthos face darkened, thunder brewing in his eyes. He half rose, glaring at Loki. "I thought you were a soldier! He shouldn't have needed to protect _you_!"

"Leave him be, Porthos, he didn't ask me to do it," Aramis said archly. His voice was too quiet, somehow. Weak.

"This is your fault," Porthos went on, ignoring Aramis's protests. "If you hadn't-"

"Enough," Athos snapped. Porthos fell silent, crouching down beside Aramis once more. "We need to get somewhere safe. There are still bandits in the woods. It won't be long before they regroup and attack again." The others began to move immediately, fetching horses and hastily shoving belongings in packs.

Porthos helped Aramis to his feet. Loki noted the pale features, the tight line of a mouth more used to smiling then grimacing. The normally graceful movements too stiff, pained. Something didn't add up.

He eyed the back of Aramis's jacket as Porthos helped him to the horses. He could see the line where a blade had caught across his upper back, right between his muscular shoulders. An unpleasant wound, no doubt, but one that would elicit that deeply disturbing hissing sound?

Loki doubted very much that Aramis was the type to make a fuss over such a relatively minor injury. His gaze dropped to the ground where the bandit lay dead, the one that had shot at him. His gun lay by his side. His sword was unbloodied. Loki was worrying for nothing.

He snarled his disgust with himself and turned to join the others pushing through the trees to find a clearing to use as a temporary base. He had been so concerned for a moment, and over a mere mortal, just because he was attractive.

And because he looked at Loki with fire in his eyes.

No. That was insignificant. This whole planet was nothing to him. What would his father say? Shame burned through him.

They made it to the clearing, but Loki could tell from the way Athos watched the woods warily that they were far from safe.

"You should go after them before they regroup," Aramis told him quietly. Loki glanced sharply at him, feeling ice form in his stomach. He knew the look in his eyes.

It was the same look in the eyes of an animal staggering off into the forest to die alone.

"You need stitches," Porthos growled. Loki knew from the pained expression that flitted briefly across Aramis's handsome features that it was already far too late. His friends could not save him.

But Loki could.

"I am a skilled physician." The words were out before he thought about what he was saying. Everyone turned to look at him. "I could stay and sew his wounds while you hunt down the remaining bandits."

Thor was watching him, evidently confused, but he smiled encouragingly at Athos. "Yes, my brother is quite skilled," he said, voice tinged with ridiculous pride. Loki prayed he assumed that his knowledge came from a book. Thor might not approve of magical means, but it was the only way now to save Aramis's life.

Athos was staring at him steadily, that calculating look in his eye once more. "Very well," he said at last, drawing his sword and turning away. Loki fought the urge to gape at him, stunned at the unhesitating trust.

"Very well?" Porthos repeated incredulously, rising from his position beside Aramis. "_He's_ the reason Aramis is injured! What if he makes it worse?"

At their feet, Aramis gave a weak chuckle. "He can't be worse than you, _mon ami_."

There was a desperation in his eyes, barely held in check. Loki understood then that he did not wish Porthos to watch him die.

How very noble.

Athos shot Porthos a commanding glare, calling for D'Artagnan and Thor to join them. Porthos shot Loki one last angry look, muttering viciously, "If you sew him crooked, I won't have to kill you myself, he'll do it for me."

The second they were gone the strength seemed to drain from Aramis and he slumped back weakly. Loki dropped to his knees beside him, sheath banging against his thighs, and ripped Aramis's jacket off. There it was- a spreading red stain across his lower back surrounding a small hole in his flesh.

"There's no point," Aramis's voice was whisper, nearly carried away by the breeze. "Bullet lodged in my intestines. Nothing to be done."

He was fading fast. Loki called the magic, felt it thrumming in his fingertips as they hovered over the ugly wound. Was he really about to show his powers to a mortal?

Aramis's eyes fluttered shut, and still Loki hesitated. It was beneath him to waste such power on so insignificant a being, and yet a hole opened in his stomach at the thought of doing nothing, of letting those smiling eyes close forever.

The magic was flooding from his fingers before he realized it. Light played along Aramis's skin, brilliant and clear. The broken flesh knitted itself back together, the bullet dissolving into nothingness within him. The skin was pristine, no evidence of the wound remaining on it. Loki smiled to himself, absurdly glad the foolish mortal wasn't going to die.

Aramis drew a long, shuddering breath, and Loki spared a moment to be grateful he was unconscious for this dazzling display.

Only a moment, however, for now that the fatal wound was dealt with, there was the matter of the other one, and Loki couldn't heal that one with magic too. Porthos would want to see the stitches. He looked down at the needle and thread someone had left beside Aramis.

How hard could it be?

* * *

Porthos charged through the bracken after Athos, fighting the urge to run back to camp and make sure Loki didn't mess up. His heart still hadn't recovered from that terrifying moment when Aramis had collapsed against him. He was sure in that moment that his dearest friend had been terribly injured.

And for what? A man who couldn't care less about him.

It made Porthos's blood boil in his veins. A savage part of him roared in triumph as they suddenly burst upon a group of the bandits. He needed to kill something, and these men who had hurt Aramis would do.

His sword sang in the air as he danced through the enemy, noting even as he fought that there was a greater range of organization here. Men were fighting as a united front, rather than attacking individually as they had in the ambush. Two of them almost pinned him against the tree before Thor's hammer ended their miserable lives.

He smiled fiercely at the enormous man, the adrenaline of battle filling him with a fierce joy. Thor returned the expression before diving back into the fray.

Porthos cut down another three men in quick succession and whirled to take on the next, only to find the remaining bandits had grouped together on the far side of the clearing. He moved to charge them but Athos appeared at his side, a hand held up in warning.

The group of men parted suddenly, allowing a tall, muscular man to pass through their midst. "Ah, Musketeers," he said, a mocking smile playing about his lips. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"And who might you be?" Athos asked, voice sharp enough to cut through steel.

The man's lips twisted in a sneer. "I don't see why I should bother with introductions. You won't be here long enough." More bandits poured out from the trees behind him.

Where were they all coming from?

"You'd be surprised," Athos said bluntly. "Musketeers don't die easily."

The leader, for it had to be he, laughed aloud. "Why, perhaps you should ask your friend that," he said, smiling cruelly. "The one with my bullet in his back."

Porthos's hand fumbled blindly for his gun, the world turning to red haze before his eyes. The man was lying, he had to be, and Porthos would silence him for good.

He wasn't quick enough. The man fell back, a look of utter surprise on his sneering face. Porthos turned to see Athos lowering his gun, face white with rage. Then the world exploded, and he was too busy bashing in the skulls of the unending supply of bandits to think for several minutes.

At long last, the last man fell, his chest crushed by a heavy blow from Thor's hammer. D'Artagnan picked his way towards them across the clearing as Porthos looked to Athos for reassurance.

"He was lying. Aramis would have told us." Even as he spoke, his eyes rose to meet Porthos's, filled with fear.

Would Aramis have told them?

Without another word, they turned and ran back the way they had come. Porthos heard D'Artagnan and Thor fall in behind them, but he did not slow. All he could see was Aramis's blood staining his hands, Aramis lying too still on the ground, Aramis _dead_…

He burst into the clearing far ahead of the others, shoving Loki aside without a second thought and groping at Aramis's neck with a hand that trembled.

It was there… it had to be…

Ah. A heartbeat.

He scrambled to turn Aramis over, searching his back for the wound the leader had spoken of, but there was nothing but a neat line of stitches between his shoulder blades.

He thought his own heart might stop from the sheer relief. He heard the others stumbling into the clearing. Without taking his eyes off Aramis, he called out, "It's fine. He's alive."

"Why wouldn't he be?" Loki asked icily, and Porthos glanced back to see him picking himself up off the ground where he'd been knocked by Porthos's headlong charge.

"Bandit… said he shot him…" D'Artagnan panted.

"That's no excuse to be stampeding like a wild creature," Loki sniffed disdainfully, brushing the dust from his breeches. Porthos watched him a bit sheepishly. He didn't like this man, but he had to admit he might owe him an apology.

"Sorry about that," he said gruffly, noting the way Loki's eyes flashed with surprise. "And uh, thanks. For helping him." He gestured in Aramis's direction. Loki narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously and didn't reply.

Suddenly self-conscious, he rose to go in search of his pack, wondering why he had even bothered to try and make nice with the icy bastard.

Then he saw Thor's grateful smile, the one that made his face light up like the sun. Well, that was a good reason.

* * *

He should be dead.

That was the first thing he was aware of as he clawed his way back to consciousness, fighting past a series of images that made no sense. He remembered pain, and feeling ice creeping through his veins. He remembered the desperate urge to get Porthos away, to keep the inevitable from him.

And then nothing.

But no, that wasn't quite true. He remembered something else, something impossible: Loki, crouching over him, glowing with light. And then the pain was gone.

An angel indeed.

He opened his eyes, blinking in the darkness. He was lying on the ground on top of what felt like every sleeping roll they had carried with them with two cloaks wrapped around him.

Porthos must have been worried.

It was sweet, in its way, except he was actually melting under all the layers, especially with a fire going not ten feet away. Moving carefully, he shrugged out of the cloaks, wondering just what had happened. Had he dreamed the light and the pain?

He glanced around the camp. Athos and D'Artagnan were nowhere to be seen, nor was Thor. Porthos had been crouching by the fire but rose when he heard him moving.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine," he shrugged, wincing as the motion traced a line of fire between his shoulder blades. Right. He'd taken a blade protecting Loki. "Where is everyone?"

"Athos took Thor and D'Artagnan out to check if we missed any bandits. Loki's off patrolling the perimeter or something." Porthos waved a hand dismissively. "And how are you, really?"

"Fine," Aramis insisted. Porthos glared at him, unimpressed.

"You're a fucking idiot," he growled, concern edging his voice with anger. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking what a terrible host I would be if I let my guest be run through by a bandit on his first journey with me?" he offered weakly. Porthos didn't even crack a smile.

"What is wrong, _mon ami_? The wound was not so terrible." He could sense something darker lurking under the edge of Porthos's concern.

Porthos sighed distractedly, one of his hands dropping to clench against Aramis's own. "The leader of the bandits claimed he had shot you," he admitted. "I thought… I thought I would return to find you dead, and I could not bear it."

Aramis stiffened suddenly, remembering. He fought the urge to twist and try to see his back. He could tell from the lack of pain that there was no bullet lodged in his stomach. But how? He could remember it entering; remember thinking _I am going to die._

If that was real, was the light? And if it wasn't, was he going mad?

"Well, I am not dead," he said, managing to keep his voice light. "I would not have hidden such a wound from you, _cheri_." His stomach twisted at the lie, for he had done just that.

"So, how badly did you mangle my stitches?" he asked, hoping to lighten the mood. He pushed the light from his mind for the moment.

Porthos chuckled. "They're fine. I didn't do them. You don't remember that?"

Aramis frowned, casting back through his blurred memories. "Wait… did Loki…?"

"You're lucky he knew how to sew," Porthos muttered under his breath. Aramis glanced up at him sharply.

"Surely you must think more kindly of him now, Porthos?" he asked in exasperation. "He just stitched up my bleeding wounds and you still don't trust him?"

Porthos opened his mouth to reply but at that moment they heard someone approaching. From the way Porthos's brows drew together angrily, Aramis knew it must be Loki.

Thinking fast, he said, "Would you mind giving me a moment with him? I wish to thank him for saving my life." He had to know if the light was real, had to know how it was he was still alive when he had felt the lead ball resting amidst his organs.

Porthos heaved a long-suffering sigh but clambered to his feet. "I'll go find some firewood," he said loudly enough for Loki to hear him. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

He strode off just as a lithe black shadow broke through the trees. Even by the firelight, Aramis could tell from the supple limbs and graceful movements that it was Loki. He sat up, smiling, as Loki cautiously approached.

"It seems I have you to thank for my life," he said cheerfully as soon as Loki's face was illuminated by the fire, the angles of his cheekbones thrown into stark relief in a way that made Aramis's skin prickle invitingly.

He doesn't miss the momentary flicker in those emerald eyes, that brief flash of suspicion. Loki knew more than Porthos, that was clear, and Aramis needed to know what that was. He decided to push his luck. "You did such a wonderful job on _both_ my wounds."

And there. The spark of defiance in the green depths, assessing the threat he posed. So it was true. He had been on the verge of death.

And he had been saved by an angel.

For a long minute, they stared each other down. Aramis broke the silence first. "I merely wished to thank you, _mon ange_," he said, offering the warmest smile he could to allay Loki's defensiveness. _I won't speak of it if you won't._

"If you had been more careful, you wouldn't have needed my help," Loki snapped, sealing the unspoken agreement.

"Ah, but then I might have needed to sew you up." Although that seemed unlikely, all things considered. Angels would not suffer from mortal weapons. And yet the streak of blood along Loki's cheek said otherwise.

Aramis fought down the urge to run his fingers along the cut, to trace the planes of that divine face with his fingertips.

For a moment, Aramis saw Loki pause and check his anger. He swore his angel was about to thank him for his sacrifice, but the next moment his lip twisted and he rose, stalking towards the far side of the fire just as Porthos emerged from the trees.

"You finished?" he asked Aramis gruffly, dropping a pile of sticks beside the fire. He had barely been gone five minutes, clearly still too concerned to leave Aramis alone. Aramis shook his head fondly at him.

"I suppose I am now," he said wryly. Porthos dropped to sit beside him. For a moment, Aramis debated telling him about the light, but he decided against it.

It was his own private miracle. He had an angel watching over him.

* * *

**AN: And they said that a crossover between Avengers and Musketeers couldn't be done. WELL WE SHOWED THEM. We showed them.**

**I don't know who I'm talking about, I'm just enjoying leaving these silly notes for you to find. - K  
**

**^Ahahaha leaving this for you lovely readers to chuckle over. Tell me, is our banter as fun as the boys'? Well, probably not, but a girl can dream. - L  
**

**Of course we're as funny as the boys, _we _wrote them ;D - K  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** **Loki tells himself all manner of lies and half-truths so that he doesn't admit anything that might risk sounding _sentimental, _and Aramis watches Loki change from terrifyingly aloof bad-ass, to terrifyingly aloof little brother. Enjoy! - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Loki was in a foul temper.

Athos had forced him into sleeping last night, when all he had wanted to do was meditate and try to take his mind off of, well, everything. He could easily keep watch over the group whilst he searched for Asgard, and he had never been burdened with a need for rest.

Instead, Athos had settled on the ground next to him with the air of someone wanting to _talk, _and so Loki had rolled over and begged for sleep to come.

Forced, he had been forced into sleeping.

If that wasn't the worst of it, his magic had been beckoning him. Numerous times had he caught himself with his hand outstretched and on the brink of easing a task; little things like putting out the fire, cooling their drinking water, or easing an ache on Thor's stallion's leg where his brother rode too hard.

Loki had never had to hold himself back from using his birthright before and to do so was proving difficult. It tingled in his fingertips and whispered invitingly ever since he had expended so much of it on Aramis.

Aramis who had been wincing ever since they had set off that morning, plainly suffering from the wounds Loki hadn't allowed himself to heal. It made his palms itch to see the man's distress, but Loki assured himself it would be the same whoever had been injured.

It didn't make any difference that it was the winces of the warm eyed man that threw himself in harm's way for him.

No difference at all.

Porthos broke from Thor's side to check on Aramis, making it the sixteenth time he had done so. The dark man had been rotating between Thor and Aramis as if on clockwork, and Loki was half-tempted to trip the man's horse just to halt the proceedings.

Their return to Paris meant that he wouldn't be able to meditate tonight, not unless he found a moment of silence – evidently that would be impossible with these obnoxious fools that were so like Thor's friends that it was startling.

Athos reminded him of Hogun, quiet and unassuming but possessing a streak of unbowing darkness that Loki had to respect. Porthos was Volstagg, loud and booming, and capable of a backhand that would break a man's neck. Aramis' graceful movements were very like Fandral's, but Aramis was definitely the more charming.

Wait, did that make him d'Artagnan, the quiet shadow that, with the foolishness of youth, looked up to his brothers?

Now Loki was restless _and _angry.

He fervently hoped that the Musketeers captain would have something new for them tomorrow, so that he would have a guise to travel again. It would be diverting to have another task, of course, but that wasn't the point.

Every day that they spent here was testament to his failure to get them home, and Loki refused to even entertain the idea of waiting for a rescue.

A movement at his left showed Athos approaching, and Loki didn't bother hiding his sigh. Would the man assault him on the road where he couldn't in camp? Loki eyed the horizon and wondered how fast he would have to canter to escape the persistent group.

"Thank you for helping, yesterday," Athos said quietly. "I don't know what we would have done without you."

Loki somehow managed to restrain his surprise and instead muttered, "Thor often led us into scrapes, I am used to them."

A half-smile tugged at Athos' strangely twisted lip and it made him handsome, the darkness in his eyes receding to be replaced with amusement as he said, "Actually, I meant your skills with Aramis, but you and your brother were indeed useful. However, I pray Thor does not encourage Porthos to pick up a similar weapon."

Loki raised an eyebrow that belied his intention to not care, even as he realised that the four Musketeers would have done just as well on their own. "You do not approve of Mjolnir?" Everyone praised the rune-forged hammer, even those who didn't know of the worthiness enchantment upon it – and perhaps he should remind Thor to keep it from mortal hands.

He shouldn't be the only one who had to hold himself back.

"Far from it, in fact – Mjolnir, was it? – is a force to be reckoned with, but I find that there is nothing quite like the song of a sword."

Loki glanced at the polished sword on Athos' other hip, the diamond in the hilt glinting in a way that indicated wealth far beyond a mere soldier. "Has it a name?"

Athos' face lit into a greater smile and Loki almost felt one curve his own mouth at the man's obvious adoration. Athos' fingers clasped under the gleaming guard as he said fondly, "Hauteclere."

Loki nodded his head and returned his attention to the road, refusing to give in to the urge to continue the entertaining discussion, to challenge the man who Aramis and Porthos deemed the best swordsman that had ever existed.

It wouldn't do to dethrone their leader, after all.

Perhaps there would be time for it later, when he wasn't so determined to _not_ enjoy himself.

His magic curled up his arm as the sun beat mercilessly upon them and, absent-mindedly, his hand lifted to cool the air. He couldn't hold back the noise of distress that escaped him as he had to once again quash the glorious power, letting the overpowering heat reign.

Aramis flinched at the sound and twisted in his saddle to look back at him, hissing when his stitches tore from the effort.

Loki immediately surged forward and, before he had even realised, placed a sliver of magic against Aramis' back, retying the stitches with an icy burst that bloomed through his palm and soothed them both.

Aramis inhaled sharply, his eyelids fluttering as his tense shoulders finally relaxed for the first time that day, before casting Loki a look that spoke of _remembrance. _

Loki snatched his hand back as if Aramis had burned him, self-loathing rising until he sneered at the soft words of gratitude from the wondering man.

He had forgotten himself again, his concern getting the better of him once more. Midgard was making him soft, and the sooner he was off of this ridiculous planet, the better.

Aramis watched Loki spur his horse onwards, lengthening the gap between them until he would have to yell to get his attention. It upset him a little and he replayed what had just happened in his head. The excruciating pain along his shoulder blades had eased with startling swiftness, and the soothing chill in his veins felt very familiar.

Familiar to when he had courted death and an angel had kept him breathing.

That same breath caught as Loki broke into a canter and Aramis was torn between feeling worried for him, and admiring his perfect seat in the saddle.

A jingle of tack to his right was Porthos once again returning to his side, muttering, "Idiot."

"He helped me, remember," Aramis replied with some amusement.

Porthos bestowed him with a scowl and grumbled, "I wasn't talking about him."

Aramis laughed, bright and clear and blissfully free from pain. It seemed to lighten the mood because, for the rest of the trip back, they called taunts and smiled at each other over the horses. Thor proved to be a veritable _trove _of delights, and they all cracked up into chuckles whenever Porthos told a dirty joke that made Thor flush adorably.

Where Loki seemed to be dark and mysterious, Thor was light and innocent. It was a fantastic dichotomy that served to entertain Aramis even as it stirred his curiosity.

They only caught up with the dark mystery just outside of Paris. Loki had a closed expression on his face but was suspiciously free from the sweat and heat-exhaustion that the rest of them were suffering from.

What tricks did his angel have?

It was a relief to stable their horses – and watch Loki murmur a fond farewell to his – and take shelter from the heat in Treville's office. Their Captain had looked up in surprise when they barrelled in, Thor desperately trying to figure out exactly where one would put such an object shaped suspiciously like-

"Back so soon?" Treville interrupted in a timely fashion, trying not to smile at Porthos' lecherous grin.

"It seemed our extra hands came in useful," Athos said with forced-innocence, smirking when pink streaked across Thor's cheeks. "The groups had, indeed, banded under a leader."

Treville's smile dropped and he rummaged on his desk for some papers. "I had meant to send a runner but you had already left – the leader's name is Antoine Soulier."

"Was," Porthos corrected with a murderous look in his eye that finally answered a question Aramis had been afraid to ask.

His brush with death had been avenged.

Relief flooded him, knocking down the final barrier that the absence of pain had exposed. His shoulder blades had itched from more than the wound across them, for he had been convinced that his almost-killer would appear to finish the job.

Men as determined as Soulier did not let their targets escape easily.

"Was?" Treville looked up from his hands. "You're sure?"

Aramis noticed the way Porthos tensed and how Athos' hand brushed against his pistol, and reminded himself to buy his beloved friends a few rounds of drinks tonight.

Treville followed the movement too and nodded with a relieved sigh. "Good, he was a nasty piece of work. It turned out that he fell out of favour with the King and, ah, he was declined a commission in the regiment."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "When was this?"

To all of their surprised amusement, Treville ducked his head and muttered, "A few months ago."

Loki's sigh was world-weary. "You humiliated him, so he had an axe to grind."

Treville nodded a little shame-facedly. "Had I known he would run off to Lagny-sur-Marne and start a coup, I would have gone about it differently."

"No matter," Aramis said easily, despite the faint stirrings of discomfort where his fatal injury had been. "He's dealt with."

"Yes, and no worse for wear, I see," Treville said as he subtly looked them over for injuries. His eyes caught on the cut across Loki's cheek and the sight made him mutter, "Don't let Marie see that."

Thor and Loki frowned as the rest of them chuckled, prompting Treville to smile and explain, "My wife. She holds me responsible for every wound my men receive."

Thor laughed before replying, "Our mother is the same. We would receive further punishment on top of our injuries for receiving them."

Something that might have been a smile ghosted across Loki's lips and Aramis wondered what such a woman would be like, to mother two completely different boys, to make even Loki smile fondly.

Perhaps angelicism ran in the family, and yet Thor did not seem as blessed by it.

Aramis looked askance at the large, light, blonde man, and amended, _well, perhaps a little blessed._

"Go," Treville dismissed them with a distracted wave. "Have the night off and return tomorrow, I'll find you something. You did well today."

With proud grins on all of their faces, they clattered down the stairs, Loki a quiet presence at Aramis' side. His fingers itched to sew the slightly bloody line across that sharp cheekbone, and he raised his hand to offer.

"You're back already?" A shocked, feminine voice sang from the kitchens. "Come; let me take a look at you!"

They turned as one and D'Artagnan whined under his breath, "I just ate, I can't eat anymore."

Thor frowned down at the boy but took a startled step back when a woman bustled past him to lift gentle fingers to D'Artagnan's jaw. She was a little plump, and flour dusted her comfortable – yet elegant – dress. The frown on her brow did nothing to detract from her beauty, but added to the silver of her hair made her a little stern as she chided, "You're skin and bones, D'Artagnan! Why aren't these boys feeding you?"

"We do feed him, Madame Treville," Athos drawled fondly. "He is just destined to be slim."

"Yeah, at least there's less of him to shoot," Porthos called out tauntingly as he sat down and propped his legs up on the closest table. Their Captain's wife merely raised an eyebrow, and Porthos immediately ducked his head and placed his feet back on the floor with a sheepish grin.

The brothers were watching these proceedings with something akin to confusion on their lofty brows, so Aramis stepped in to help them along. "Madame Marie Treville? This is Thor and Loki of…?" He trailed off with a surprised tone to his question, realising that he still didn't know where they were from.

"Of Asgard," Thor supplied helpfully, and Loki seemed to exhale in exasperation.

"Asgard? That's in the mountains, is it not?" Marie asked, but didn't notice, as Aramis did, the way Thor looked to his brother for guidance.

"Yes, we're quite far from home," Loki replied politely.

The four Musketeers rolled their eyes, for they knew what would happen next.

"_Mon Dieu!_ And my husband sent you out on errands? You poor darlings! Here, sit; let me find you some sustenance. You look half-starved!"

Thor perked up at the mention of food, but Loki didn't seem to know how to react to the openly affectionate woman. Loki blinked at Marie until she hooked her arm with his and ushered him over to the table, where she exclaimed, "Just as thin as D'Artagnan! I will fetch you a larger portion."

Aramis couldn't hide his smile as Loki allowed the small woman to sit him down. _How the mighty have fallen, _he thought with a quiet chuckle.

It turned to hilarious pity, however, when Marie returned with a positively ginormous bowl – after ordering Porthos to help – and placed it in front of Loki's stuttered gratitude.

Emerald eyes locked with his and they screamed _'help'_, before cutting to d'Artagnan and glaring when the boy snickered.

Marie caught the look and gently tapped d'Artagnan on the cheek. "You too, _mon fils, _sit down."

D'Artagnan groaned good-naturedly, but dutifully began to eat when Thor remarked kindly, "Eat up. You'll need your strength if we're to be off tomorrow."

Aramis shared an amused glance with Athos at that "_we_", but Athos covered his by nodding sombrely. "Yes, we will be busy by all accounts."

Porthos pouted. "We're going to the tavern, though, right? I won't go back out on an empty stomach." Marie placed a bowl of food in front of him and he muttered, "I meant a drink."

Marie cuffed him on the back of the head and disappeared now that her fussing was accomplished. As they laughed, Aramis found himself – as he often had since yesterday – watching Loki, who seemed entirely too innocent all of a sudden.

D'Artagnan reeled to dodge a roll that Porthos had thrown, when the boy settled back down, he frowned at his bowl before looking at Loki's. "Hey, what-?"

"What?" Loki interrupted coldly, shutting D'Artagnan down instantly.

"Nothing," d'Artagnan replied meekly, which prompted Thor to look between them.

"Loki did not eat his food," Thor remarked matter-of-factly, to which Loki checked for Marie and then glared at his brother with the force of a thousand suns.

"What do you see before you, Thor? An empty plate."

"That is not yours, it is D'Artagnan's."

"What are you suggesting? That I, somehow, swapped them? When – and indeed, _how_ – would I do that?"

Porthos grunted around his spoon, "He makes a good point, we were all sat right here."

"My brother is excellent at sleight-of-hand," Thor commented simply before reaching over to take the troubling bowl and eating from it himself.

The rest of them stared wonderingly at Loki who pretended that none of them existed.

Aramis couldn't take it any longer, he cracked up. When Loki bestowed him with a withering look, he laughed even harder, until it hurt to take a breath.

Athos laid a steadying hand on his shoulder when he choked trying to dodge a roll that appeared out of nowhere. Aramis could hazard a guess as to its source when Thor frowned at his brother but Loki maintained his scowl at the table, whilst D'Artagnan watched the pair with wary amusement.

To see his haughty angel engage in nothing less than _bickering _with his brother, was absolutely delightful.

It made him wonder quite how unrestrained Loki could become.

"You know," Aramis said slyly, "I think those drinks wouldn't go amiss."

Porthos met his eye with a ribald grin as Athos spread his hands in faux-reluctance and said, "To the tavern it is, then."

Did angels have a high alcohol tolerance?

Aramis rather hoped not.

* * *

**AN: Hope you enjoyed it, just as Aramis enjoys seeing Loki loosen up a little - and by a little, I mean that he holds himself so tight that Aramis could basically use him as a shield, or a bed... Please review! :D - K  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: The Minotaur and Thor get stupid drunk, Scruff passes out, the Puppy bails, Aramis watches the Magic 8 Ball cheat and then tries to wriggle his way into his bed. The most adorable Minothor scene at the end.**

**I absolutely adore this chapter. - K  
**

**I absolutely adore this description. - L**

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT  
**

To no one's surprise, it was Porthos who suggested a drinking contest. It had taken a single round for the Musketeers to see that their guests could hold their wine as well as Athos, and Aramis had a suspicion that Porthos hoped to get Thor staggering drunk and see where that led.

Not that he was about to complain, for he saw the interest that flashed in Loki's emerald eyes at the suggestion.

"An excellent idea!" Thor cried, slapping a heavy hand on Porthos's shoulder. Aramis smirked at the appraising look in his friend's eyes. Porthos was not exactly subtle.

Loki shifted beside his brother and Aramis found his eyes drawn to the line of his jaw. Then again, neither was he. Damn D'Artagnan for taking the spot on his other side.

"I don't think I'm up for this," D'Artagnan said with a laugh, extricating himself from the crowded table. "Athos can drink two of me on a good night. I've no chance at all." Porthos checked and Athos raised his tankard with a wry smile.

"Besides, Constance is waiting for me," D'Artagnan added with a sly grin, and Aramis raised his tankard in salute as the boy darted off. If all went well, perhaps D'Artagnan would not be the only one passing the night in enjoyable company.

Aramis slipped into D'Artagnan's empty chair without missing a beat, casually letting his leg brush against Loki's without glancing towards him. Loki drew away and Aramis had to stifle a sigh. He truly hoped the man would be more amenable drunk.

"Bartender! We shall require wine… a great deal more wine!" Porthos called. In a few minutes they were ready. Aramis leaned in to fill his tankard again, careful to let his arm slide along Loki's as he did so.

"May the best man win!" Porthos said, smiling broadly as he raised his tankard in a toast. Athos smirked, but Aramis noticed Loki and Thor looked uncomfortable for a split second before echoing the gesture.

Interesting.

Perhaps angels did not count as 'men.'

It was some time before any effects became visible, but when they did, it was something to behold. Athos, naturally, seemed no different than he did any other night in the tavern. Porthos grew boisterous, as did Thor, while Loki showed no effects whatsoever.

Aramis himself, though he would never admit it aloud, became tactile when drunk. He almost regretted not sitting next to Porthos, whom he could have draped himself over with hardly a raised eyebrow, because every move Loki made sent desire racing through his limbs. He wanted to reach out and wrap an arm around that slim waist, lean against Loki's lean frame, run a hand down his spine to see if he stiffened, but he resisted.

_Ought to get a medal from the king for my immense strength of will_, he thought hazily. They'd gone through several bottles already and showed no signs of slowing. No one was bothering to keep count. Good sense might kick in if they tried.

"You ought to admit defeat right now!" Porthos said loudly, a broad grin stretching across his handsome face as he nudged Thor in the ribs. "Our Athos has never been out-drank!"

"Nor have I!" Thor said happily, refilling his tankard. "It shall be a glorious battle!"

And so it went on. Another bottle down and Aramis lost the battle with self-control.

There goes my medal, he thought mournfully as he found his hand resting possessively on Loki's shoulder. It was cool beneath his palm. To his surprise, Loki did not shrug him off. He seemed intent on something else. He seemed to be watching Thor, who was certainly on the path to being well and truly hammered.

Aramis paused for a moment, watching with fascination as Loki's lips curled into a tiny smile and he nodded to himself, looking pleased. He raised his tankard to his perfect lips and Aramis fought the urge to bat it aside and trace them with his fingers, curious about whatever it was that was making his angel smile.

The tankard touched Loki's lips and the air glimmered for a fraction of a second. Aramis blinked. Loki set the tankard down once more, and the level had decreased. But he had never swallowed.

Aramis was momentarily distracted by the thought of Loki swallowing, perfect lips wrapped around… no, no, he was not going there this early in the evening.

He glanced at Loki, who was still watching Thor surreptitiously. That confirmed it in his mind: Loki was cheating. His angel was using his powers to make his wine disappear.

Aramis was torn between shock and amusement. He hadn't thought an angel would put his talents to such base use. Loki truly was a fallen angel. He thought of the darkness smoldering in those emerald eyes, the disdain that curled his lips. It was certainly possible.

Loki must have sensed him watching him, for a moment later brilliant eyes turned his way and Loki jerked his shoulder out from under his hand. Smirking, Aramis glanced pointedly at the cup and winked in what was probably a ridiculously exaggerated manner, but it seemed to do the job. For just a moment, amusement lit in Loki's eyes and his face softened into something less disdainful and more… mischievous. It made Aramis's blood race.

Athos's sudden laughter brought drew Loki's attention away again. Surprised, Aramis looked over to where Athos sat, an astonishingly wide smile lighting his features. He looked… happy.

Porthos was beginning to sway in his seat, leaning heavily on Thor, whose attempts to refill his tankard left more wine on the table than in his cup. Athos laughed again at the attempt, and Aramis stared at him, shocked. For the first time in living memory, he had passed through the brooding phase and entered the happy drunken state.

"Ar'mis, you've got t' have some more wine," Athos slurred, reaching across the table to press a fresh bottle into Aramis's hands. He realized that he'd had far less than any of his companions.

Loki raised his tankard again and Aramis saw Thor glance up, a slight frown appearing between his eyes. Aramis reached forward and all but threw his tankard across the table from the force of his feigned spill as he reached for the bottle in Athos's hand, but it distracted Thor while Loki magicked away more of the wine.

"He can't 'old his liquor!" Porthos rumbled happily, and the others laughed, but Aramis could feel Loki's eyes on him.

Fingers brushed the back of his shoulder and Aramis had to fight not to stiffen in shock. Loki was touching him. A moment later the pressure withdrew, but Aramis read the silent acknowledgment in the gesture. His head suddenly felt far clearer.

How odd.

Athos suddenly grabbed up a full bottle of wine and made a valiant attempt to down it in one go. Porthos and Thor let out loud cheers as Athos leaned back in his chair, head flung back. He was about a quarter of the way through the bottle when he leaned too far backwards and fell, rolling over the chair to fall flat on his back. Porthos and Thor roared with laughter, and even Loki smirked.

Athos attempted to get to his feet but fell back a moment later as his feet got tangled with the chair legs, eyes falling shut. Aramis was on the verge of rising to make sure he hadn't injured himself in the fall when a loud snore emanated from the floor.

"One down!" Porthos crowed, collecting the fallen bottle and passing it to Thor. Aramis subtly nudged the bottle Athos had pressed upon him towards Porthos, hiding a grin when his friend swept it up.

It wouldn't be long now.

His prediction was correct. Porthos held his liquor well, but after a certain point it all hit him at once and he went down like a brick wall. It seemed Thor was much the same, for within ten minutes the pair of them were face down on the table, snoring like wild beasts, while Aramis grinned in delight and even Loki allowed a smile of triumph.

By unspoken agreement Aramis conceded that Loki was the winner. He was no fool, and he wasn't going to continue a fight he had no chance of winning.

Though Porthos would say that his pursuit of Loki was precisely that.

Loki turned that small, pleased smile on Aramis, and he realized he didn't give a damn if this was an impossible task. He would win his dark angel over or fail in the attempt.

* * *

He was perhaps feeling a bit too proud of himself at the moment, but it was hard not to with Aramis gazing at him with what could only be termed 'drunken adoration' and the rest of his companions out cold. Thor could outdrink Loki, but Loki could outsmart him. It wasn't an unusual end to a drinking game.

But no one had ever caught him in the act before.

Aramis's approval and assistance had been entirely unexpected, and if Loki was being honest, not unwelcome. He had preened a bit under the focused attention, unused to the feeling of being admired.

He was also a tad drunk from the wine he had been forced to consume until Thor was too inebriated to notice his magic, which was turning his normally ordered thoughts to chaos and making it very difficult to ignore the enormous brown eyes watching him so devotedly.

"To your victory, _mon ange,_" Aramis murmured huskily, raising a glass. Loki frowned at the unfamiliar word but resisted the temptation to ask its meaning, refusing to appear ignorant before the mortal with the burning glances.

He tried very hard not to watch the way Aramis's lips fitted against the rough wood of the tankard as he sipped the wine.

Scowling, he forced himself to look away, allowing bitterness to sweep away the wine his magic had failed to purge from his bloodstream. Aramis was nothing more than an irritating mortal. Loki sneered, remembering his own pleasure when Aramis had accepted his magic. What had he expected? The man was drunk.

But, no, what had Aramis called it, his 'light'? He had not been incapacitated by wine then, and still he had looked on Loki with awe.

Loki allowed himself a small smile. Silly Midgardians. Still, his heart lightened enough to allow him to turn back and meet Aramis's smiling eyes.

"Perhaps we ought to do something about them?" he asked, trying to distract Aramis from his apparent goal of staring at Loki for the rest of the night.

Aramis glanced around in surprise as if he had forgotten the others were there. "Athos…" he muttered distractedly, trying to rise.

"He's fine," Loki cut him off at once, embarrassed at his own desire to spare the man worry. Athos was, in fact, fine, the hard-headed idiot. Loki, to his shame, had checked the man for injuries the moment he had fallen. Not that he would ever admit it.

Aramis, for all his slowed perception, seemed to see right through his mask of indifference and a small, pleased grin crept across his features. Nevertheless, he rose and walked unsteadily until he was kneeling by Athos, reaching down and shaking the man's shoulder.

To Loki's surprise, Athos woke after a moment. The man had drunk enough wine to render even Volstagg unconscious, and yet he glared at Aramis with an expression that was alert and irritated.

Aramis must have noted Loki's surprise, for he explained with a smile, "Athos can usually go far longer than that. If he hadn't fallen, even you might not have been able to best him."

"Help me get Porthos," Aramis ordered as he pulled Athos to his feet. Loki supposed that left Thor to his tender mercies.

Between the two of them, Aramis and Athos managed to get their sleeping companion slung between them, though Loki had his doubts about whether Athos would be able to keep his feet. Loki himself put on a show of getting Thor up but secretly sent magic to levitate his giant brother in such a way that Loki merely appeared to be carrying him. He was strong, but no one should have to deal with Thor's deadweight.

Aramis led the way back to the garrison rooms, Athos stumbling beside him and barely managing to keep Porthos from dragging them all down to the road. Once or twice on the way back, Loki thought he heard footsteps behind them, but when he turned, there was no one there, and he had to hurry to catch up to the three men staggering ahead of him.

When they reached the garrison, Athos peeled off almost at once, staggering down a different hallway until he came up against a door.

"Athos's rooms are down there," Aramis said, panting slightly from the effort of bearing Porthos's weight on his own. The larger man had come to but was still too uncoordinated to do much more than move his legs in a vaguely cumbersome manner.

Loki pushed away an urge to help Aramis with his burden. A vindictive part of him wanted Aramis to drop the irksome Musketeer, but another worried that Aramis would injure himself in the process. In the end, he sent just enough magic to ensure Aramis wouldn't career off the edge of the balcony, cursing himself all the while for his sentimentally.

He blamed it on the wine.

He could hear Aramis murmuring what sounded like encouragement to Porthos as they neared the rooms. A few steps closer told him it was actually a mix of compliments that Loki found oddly irritating and affectionate threats to dunk Porthos in the water trough next time he got so drunk he couldn't walk.

Another compliment to 'Porthos's prodigious strength' and Loki would do it himself.

They had just reached the proper set of doors when Porthos gained his feet for a moment, smiling broadly at Aramis as he attempted to find the proper keys.

"Ar'mis, I di'n't know you could hold your liq'r so well!"

Aramis rolled his eyes as he finally located the key, tilting his head enough to catch Loki's eye.

Loki smirked, having often been on the receiving end of that particular phrase. Honestly, it was unbelievable that Thor had never realized Loki cheated during drinking games. He was a model of oafish gullibility, but Loki found himself unable to muster the proper amount of disdain for his brother at the moment.

Must be the alcohol.

Once both doors were open, Aramis paused, looking back at him with a question in his eyes. Loki realized with a sinking feeling that he was going to have to share at room with his enormous, snoring brother. He was just plotting ways to silence Thor without damaging him when a look of mischief danced across Aramis's face.

"Why don't we put Porthos and Thor in together?" he asked, smirking devilishly. Loki fought the urge to laugh but allowed himself a smile as he nodded, imagining the awkward awakening the two men would have.

He completely forgot to consider where Aramis would be sleeping until he was standing in the middle of the room, looking back at the doorway, with Aramis lounging against the wall with a very different smile on his face.

"So…" he drawled, charm all but oozing off of him as he raised one arm above his head to brace himself against the doorframe. In the darkness of the room, Loki could only make out his striking silhouette. "It's an awfully long trip back to my lodging house, and it's quite late…"

It took Loki's brain an obscene amount of time to work out what Aramis was implying. By the time his mind caught up, Aramis was already shutting the door, crowding into Loki's space in a way that made his clothing feel too tight.

"It's _my_ room," he protested, but his voice failed to take an appropriately icy tone.

Aramis smiled wolfishly. "Well, actually, it's mine, but we can share. The bed is large enough." Loki glanced back at the narrow bed. They'd have to lie atop one another to both fit… _ahh_.

With an immense effort, he brought his thoughts back under strict control and leveled a cold glare at Aramis.

"We shall not-" he began stiffly, but Aramis's laughter cut him off.

"Of course not, _mon ange_," he said, still grinning. "I shall, of course, take the chair unless otherwise invited." His voice curled teasingly around the last word, but Loki did not allow his thoughts to linger.

"Very good," he said shortly. He refused to allow any emotion to cross his face, worried he might show a glimpse of the amazement he felt in the face of Aramis's sincere generosity. He settled himself on Aramis's be- on _the_ bed, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he resisted the temptation to glance over at the handsome man making himself comfortable on the hard chair in the corner.

After a few minutes of lying there, too aware of his roommate, guilt began to war with hesitation in his chest. This was Aramis's bed, and he had made no secret of his interest or his unflinching acceptance. Disdain kept Loki aloof, but Aramis was vibrant and alive, and for once Loki wondered if, perhaps, he shouldn't fight so hard against what he wanted.

Before he could think about it any longer, he sat up and blurted out, "Aramis-"

A soft snore cut through the silence before he could say anymore. He was too late.

Cursing his own weakness, Loki lay back down on the bed, refusing to acknowledge the disappointment clawing through his chest.

He stared at the ceiling long into the night.

* * *

When Porthos woke in the gentle predawn light, his first thought was that Aramis was much too far away. He grumbled incoherently and tried to tug Aramis closer before pausing. Aramis's biceps were not that large last nigh- _Shit_.

It was Thor.

Well, technically they _were _both still asleep. If his arm just happened to creep over Thor and gently pull the slumbering man closer, well, he could hardly be blamed.

And if Thor responded enthusiastically and nestled into his embrace, all that could be said was that they were cuddly drunks, that was all. No one could fault them for that.

He wondered vaguely where Aramis was and chuckled to himself as he connected the dots. _That little flirt_, he thought. _He read me too well_.

And after Porthos had berated him for fancying Loki, too.

His last thought before he fell back asleep, curled against Thor's warm back, was that Aramis would never let him live this down.

* * *

**AN: I always forget about that last little scene and end up grinning like an absolute looby (casually tell that I've been reading Beka Cooper). Standard thanks-for-reading-gief-reviews-naaaaow. - K  
**

**^These are probably the kinds of things I was meant to edit out but c'mon man this is funnier. Also, is that a hint of Thor/Porthos I wrote in there? ...PORTHUNDER - L  
**

**ALL ABOARD THE S.S. PORTHUNDER, TOOT TOOT, READERS, TOOT TOOT - K  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN:** **Aramis feels the repercussions of being a gallant gentleman in the aches in his muscles, and Loki picks a fight like the brat that he is. Athos schools Loki in the ways of being a Musketeer. Enjoy! - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**

Aramis woke up from a rather delightful dream about smirks and moonlight and wondered why his back felt like he had fallen asleep in the saddle, as well as why his head was telling him that he had drunk _far_ too much last night.

His eyes opened onto a familiar ceiling. This was his room. Why hadn't he-?

Aramis' hand leaped to his sore neck with a small noise of distress as he tried to look at what had kept him from lying in his bed. Loki, on his back, his eyes closed, eyelashes dark against his pale cheekbones.

Aramis remembered – he was needing to do that a lot, lately.

For a moment, he thought about how he had dreamed of Loki saying his name. That had been the start of his dream, actually, and it had ended with Loki saying it again, but with a considerably higher note to his needy voice…

Aramis coughed self-consciously and shook his head, trying not to focus on cruel lips that were relaxed in repose. Loki looked serene again, like he had when he had bathed in the moonlight in Marteaux Forest.

Light flashed in front of Aramis' eyes and he jerked to his feet, whirling when he felt something move against his shoulders. It was a blanket, the one that normally hung over the end of his bed.

His heartbeat settled as he realised that there was no danger, and he aimed a considering look at the supposedly cold angel. Had it been Loki who had wrapped him up to keep him warm, or had Aramis done it himself?

Emerald eyes flicked open and locked onto his shoulders, and Aramis smiled. There was his answer.

"Sleep well,_ mon ange_?"

Loki gave him an unimpressed look and replied scathingly, "No, you snore."

Aramis chuckled and stretched, enjoying the way green eyes tracked fire across his stomach. "I'm sure there's a medical explanation to that, I _did _have to sleep in a chair."

Amazingly, something that almost looked like guilt flew across Loki's face as he sat up. He almost appeared to say something, his mouth opening hesitantly, but then they both looked at the wall when they heard movement beyond.

Aramis, with a sly smile at a hazy memory, strode to the door and flung it open. Thor scrambled back as if Aramis had scared him, but there had _already_ been pink staining the blond's face.

"Good morning, Thor," Aramis murmured, valiantly keeping all lewd insinuation out of his voice. Thor mumbled something incoherent back and practically ran down the hallway.

Laughing under his breath, Aramis looked back to see Porthos closing his door with satisfied victory completely lighting his features.

"Had a good night?" Aramis asked with faux-innocence.

"Nope," Porthos pretended to grumble. "I slept right through it."

Aramis shared a knowing, considerably _lewd_ grin with him before turning to see Loki with a confused frown on his face as he joined them at the doorway. "Where's Thor?"

"He went for some fresh air," Porthos answered sombrely. "Said he felt too warm, something about a heavy blanket or…"

Aramis clamped his teeth around his lower lip and struggled not to laugh out loud, having no trouble picturing Porthos draped over an unconscious, softly smiling Thor.

Loki, however, didn't quite seem to catch on. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, said he had never slept so well, actually."

Aramis' cheek twitched and he gave Porthos an amused glare, trying to tell him to stop teasing poor Loki.

That was Aramis' job.

He certainly relished it when he pretended not to notice that Loki was trying to get past, and, instead, savoured the heated flush across pale cheeks when Loki's chest came into contact with his.

Porthos snorted and Loki shot him a glower that could have killed a lesser man.

Loki strode haughtily down the corridor and Aramis allowed himself a moment to admire the lithe figure before smiling at Porthos' raised eyebrow.

"Something to say, _mon ami?_" Aramis asked with arch challenge.

"Can I say anything, ever again?"

"No," he replied with a dark smile from under his lashes. "But you're welcome to thank me."

Porthos slung his arm around Aramis' shoulders and grumbled, "Yeah, yeah, we'll see."

Aramis chuckled and leaned comfortably against Porthos, allowing himself to be herded along the hallway by the larger man. "Indeed, we will."

They tumbled apart with a laugh outside, and saw Loki appraising Athos with a respectful tilt of his head. Aramis knew exactly why it was, it was because Athos had that ability to appear completely sober even though he had almost been stone-cold drunk the night before.

As predicted, Athos' hair glittered in the midday light, water droplets still trickling down his neck, the signs of a man who had dunked his head in a bucket when he realised that he had to get up.

D'Artagnan was the only one who appeared genuinely awake as he strutted in, a frustratingly bright smile on his face of a young man who had enjoyed a wonderful night. "Who won then?"

Loki's assessing gaze slipped over to him and Aramis felt his own bright smile form at the sight. "Loki did."

Aramis was rewarded with a flash of a smirk and enjoyed Loki's pleased, acknowledging nod when D'Artagnan congratulated him.

To think that this was the same arrogant angel who had once regarded him so coldly.

Thor appeared, to D'Artagnan's cry of welcome, and then it was down to business. Athos brandished a note from his jacket and said quietly, "Treville wants us to meet a courier outside of the Paris; we're to wait until they arrive."

"I love easy tasks," Porthos sighed happily.

"_Je suis désolé, _but why do I think that the Captain wouldn't send us all for something so simple?" Aramis asked dubiously, patting Porthos on the shoulder when his friend's face dropped.

"Aramis is being the realistic one? Surely not," D'Artagnan teased, and grinned proudly when Thor chuckled.

"He's right," Athos admitted with a tilt to his lip. "Treville expects an ambush."

Loki frowned. "Why not just have the courier come into the city?"

Aramis met Athos' eye and read the allowance there, the confirmation that Aramis could speak about this. "The Musketeers have opposition here. It's easier for everyone if we keep it under wraps."

Thor crossed his arms in confusion. "Can your king not rout these unlawful types out?"

Loki gave his brother a look that appeared emotionless, but it made Thor duck his head in apology. Strange.

Porthos shifted his weight from foot-to-foot. "Nah- well, the shady ones aren't necessarily the problem – they keep to themselves," he said the last fondly, referring to the Court of Miracles. "It's the ones in the palace that end up causin' the most trouble."

"Spies-?" Thor started, seeming almost offended on Louis' behalf, to their amusement. Cardinal Richelieu might well be the very best spy that had ever existed, as no one else had managed to work their way to the King's right hand.

Athos hushed them all. "Let's talk about this on the road, if we must.

They immediately set off for the stables, and Aramis wondered why Loki kept looking behind them like a perceptive cat.

He recalled that wonderful dream from earlier, and knew that Loki was certainly _sinuous_ like one.

* * *

Loki endured the journey in silence, as he always did; letting the others talk and joke around him as he nestled within his own thoughts.

Occasionally, he noticed Aramis look his way and smile, as if he found his silence amusing.

Loki worked very hard on not smiling back.

They made good time even lingering at turns in the road, finding the supposed drop-off point amidst the woods around Paris. It was about mid-afternoon by the time they settled, Aramis tending the horses, Thor and Porthos starting the fire, D'Artagnan readying their food, and Athos preparing to scout their surroundings.

Loki blinked at the cohesion of the little group, and then held his hand out with an impatient tapping of his foot. "Do you want water, or not?"

Each of them looked up in surprise and then hesitantly tossed their water skins to him, except for Aramis, who strode over and placed his in his hands with a warm smile and murmured, "Thank you, Loki."

_Interfering mortal._

Loki walked away from the pleasant heat of that brown-eyed gaze and chided his foolishness. He was still feeling guilty for making the man sleep on a chair in his own room, and he had noticed the stiffness along shoulders that Loki felt compelled to soothe.

He muttered angrily under his breath and dropped all of the bottles in an ungainly heap on the grass.

It would serve Aramis right if Loki filled his bottle with muddy water or, indeed, didn't fill it at all.

Loki kicked a rock into the river and stared at the slowly setting sun. He was blaming the Musketeers for his restlessness, but in reality it was because he was no closer to finding the way home.

It didn't help that Loki couldn't stand feeling vulnerable, and he was feeling it more than he ever had before. It wasn't his own vulnerability that bothered him, but the weakness of mortals, and how theirs had become his.

His father would spit on him if he knew about that whisper of _sentiment_.

Loki sighed, relegating himself to more heated glances from Aramis whilst he was trying to restrain the urge to either heal the infuriatingly charming man, or push him over.

Considerably grumpier, he stormed back into the camp and threw their water skins near the burning fire, hesitating for only a second when Aramis appeared at his side and Loki found himself handing that one bottle over.

Curse everything.

He needed to get off of this strangely entertaining planet. "I'll take watch tonight."

"No," Athos replied matter-of-factly, appearing from the dense trees. "You took it last time, let someone else do it."

Loki bristled, his ire finding someone to focus on. "I care not that I have, I _want _to do it."

"Loki, we share duties here-"

"I am the best swordsman," Loki interrupted with a sneer. "It makes the most sense for me to be awake."

Athos had been taking off his gloves, but he stilled at Loki's disdain, and looked up with a raised eyebrow that would rival Loki's best perfectly neutral face.

Everyone else had frozen, Aramis casting a wide-eyed glance at Porthos who shook his head in regaled disbelief. Thor almost stepped forward but then d'Artagnan must have made a noise, because his brother halted with a concerned look at the boy.

Loki watched Athos' hand fall onto Hauteclere's hilt, his fingers lightly stroking the diamond in the hilt. "Do you believe that we rank each other based on skill?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Six livre on Athos," Porthos called out with a bloodthirsty grin, as if he was looking forward to what would happen next. It was a far different grin from Aramis' one the last time he had watched a spar. In fact, this time, Aramis looked almost hesitant.

And then he caught his gaze and that tell-tale heat flared from hungry brown eyes as Aramis murmured, "I'll take that bet."

Loki's pride reared up and he drew his sword in a sigh of steel, rolling the handle in his hand as he snarled at Athos, "For the first watch."

Athos watched him for a moment, calculating and shrewd, and then the man pulled his gloves back on and his rapier, Hauteclere, suddenly danced between them, a gleaming slash of steel.

Anticipation made Loki weave his golden sword in a figure of the Ouroboros. Athos regarded the weapon's movement and Loki smirked, saying sibilantly, "Singasverð, it has tasted the blood of many, and yours will be next."

Athos merely inclined his head to the side, and then the man _leaped. _At one moment, Athos had seemed almost relaxed, and at the next, Loki had instinctively slid to the side and watched Hauteclere sweep through where he had been.

It prompted him to attack and so he whirled, pleased that he had his armour on and lending him strength. He knew that he looked threatening, even more so when his outfit was complete.

It made him laugh sinisterly to imagine the Midgardians' reactions if he were to wear his helmet.

Perhaps he would show them at one point.

Aramis would probably like it.

Loki slashed distractedly, aiming for Athos' arm, but the Musketeer had skill. Athos moved in close steps, like a dancer, his every movement precise and calculated.

And yet Loki couldn't predict what Athos would do, and that was startling.

Athos suddenly struck, Hauteclere appearing in Loki's vision so that he had to jerk back. It occurred to Loki that Athos was as reckless as he was controlled, and that made him so very dangerous.

Loki attacked furiously, using offence as defence. He flicked Singasverð towards Athos' jugular, only for it to be smacked aside by the flat of Athos' blade.

Loki blinked in amazement, and then a strange sensation whipped across his jaw. Athos retreated immediately and Loki brought tentative fingers up to a cut that stung when he touched it.

Athos' face had never changed from neutral.

"_Lodinkinni glfuss_," Loki spat insults in Old Norse, his astonishment swiftly warping into vicious fury. Thor finally broke from d'Artagnan's open-mouthed side but halted when Loki hissed at him to go away, to keep watch, _"Brott, vaka!"_

Loki managed to brusquely return Athos' polite nod, and then he flung himself to the fire's edge and grit his teeth until it hurt. The desire to lay waste to every single inch of their camp was almost overwhelming in its intensity.

He knew with the most self-deprecating sneer that he could manage, that he had _chosen _not to use his magic, because that would be _cheating._

And so a mortal had beaten him.

Porthos snorted at his muttered curses and Loki snapped, "Just because you lose with grace doesn't mean we all have to."

Porthos just shook his head and chuckled, prompting Loki to ask reluctantly, "How do you do it?"

Porthos' grin was bright and a little sly, and he nodded past the fire as he replied, "Because the loser gets the consolation prize".

Aramis appeared in the fire's glow with concern on his face, and Loki bristled. He adamantly did not want _pity_, not from the man who had taken a bet on his skill and yet Loki had _let him down._

Aramis absent-mindedly threw Porthos his winnings, and then Loki realised that tempered with the concern was a still distinct amount of heat. Aramis had _enjoyed _watching him dance with a sword, and it had made absolutely no difference that Loki had lost.

His pride reasserted, flared like fat thrown onto an open fire, because it wasn't Thor's rough wrestling, but the grace and dexterity of swordplay that had made Aramis look quite so hungry. Loki began to understand what Porthos had just said.

But, he thought with that sly little whisper of sentiment fuelling the fire in his stomach, Aramis' attention was less of a consolation prize, and more something that Loki would be willing to fight for.

Loki placed icy fingers on Aramis' shoulders and savoured his soft sigh of gratitude.

* * *

**AN: These are two are going to be the death of us, I know it. Please keep us alive by reviewing and letting us know what you think!**

**Couldn't resist throwing some Old Norse in alongside the smattering of French, Loki basically calls Athos a scruffy drunk. - K  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Aramis watches the pretty birds and then shows one of them how to fire a gun. The Songbird goes greener than his cape, and Porthos is a little shit. Athos is ridiculously profound and is the defender of tables everywhere. - K  
**

**^But a supportive little shit. - L**

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN  
**

By some miserable turn of luck, Aramis drew the predawn watch. Porthos woke him hurriedly before crawling under his own blankets and huddling into a ball to preserve warmth in the chilly morning air. He didn't so much as shoot Aramis a sympathetic glance, pausing only long enough to say that their contact had dropped his documents off during Athos's shift.

Which meant there was almost no reason to bother keeping watch. Lovely. He could freeze to death while knowing his sacrifice was utterly meaningless.

A glimpse of Loki's sleeping form soon made him revise that thought, however. Maybe this watch wasn't entirely pointless.

Loki was curled on his side, dark hair splayed against the pack he was using as a pillow. The hard lines of his face were smoothed out in sleep and he looked younger than even D'Artagnan.

Aramis stared at him, fascinated. Somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice remarked that it was good he no longer expected an ambush, for he would have been easy prey, sitting and gawping as he was.

Only the lucky intervention of a risen songbird drew his eyes from Loki's sleeping form in time. He glanced away at the melodious creature, and when he looked back he found Loki gazing directly back at him.

He squashed the desire to blush, grateful that Loki hadn't caught him watching him as he slept like some predator. There were lines it wouldn't do to cross so soon.

Loki sat up, glancing around the sleeping camp. He stretched, catlike, back arching in the crisp air in a way that made Aramis feel much warmer all of a sudden.

To his great surprise, Loki made his way over to the log Aramis had commandeered as a watch post and arranged himself into a sitting position on the stump a few feet away. Aramis forced himself not to watch the way those long legs folded gracefully together.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully, breath misting slightly in the chilly air. Loki politely returned the greeting, though for some reason his breath did not leave the distinctive trail of steam that Aramis's had.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Aramis caught Loki watching him from the corner of his eye. He was on the verge of preening at the attention when he realized Loki was actually looking at the arquebus slung across his knees.

Ah, well. Beggars can't be choosers.

"Do you like it?" he asked casually, hefting the gun in his hand. Loki jumped ever so slightly and Aramis smirked, glad to have caught him out.

"I suppose it's acceptable," Loki said derisively, but his eyes betrayed his curiosity. "Are you any good with it?"

"To hear Porthos, tell it, I'm the best," he replied with charming smile. "Perhaps I could interest you in a demonstration? I promise not to disappoint."

He could see Loki wavering, interest warring with disdain, and threw in, "You could even have a go of it yourself, if you liked."

That got Loki's attention. "Truly?" he asked, watching Aramis with what could almost be called a childish fascination. Then his face hardened and fell slightly. "But I have never…" he trailed off hesitantly.

"Never used an arquebus before?" Aramis supplied helpfully.

"…Yes," Loki answered after another momentary pause.

"Well then, perhaps I should teach you how to handle it," he teased, getting to his feet without waiting for an answer. "Come with me."

He nudged D'Artagnan awake with a boot as he passed and whispered a plea to cover for him. Taking the boy's angry grunt as agreement, he and Loki headed into the woods. It wouldn't do to be shooting too close to camp, after all.

They did not speak as they made their way through the trees to a small clearing Aramis had found while wandering the evening before. "This will do."

Loki meandered about the clearing for a few minutes before he rejoined Aramis who had been busily choosing the best targets for a beginner to aim for.

"Are you ready to begin?" he asked, smiling in anticipation. Loki eyed him warily but nodded.

"Excellent! Now, you take this," he said, shoving the gun into Loki's hands, "And stand here, and _keep your finger off the trigger_!" The last was hissed as he batted Loki's hand away from the trigger. "Don't put your finger there unless you're ready to fire! You could kill someone. Did you not learn this?"

"My instruction with guns has been… limited," Loki told him, and Aramis was ashamed at the slight crimson tinge his cheeks had taken. He had not meant to humiliate him.

"Perhaps your weapons had less sensitive triggers," he said smoothly, offering Loki a way out of his discomfort.

"Yes, that must have been it," Loki murmured. He did not meet Aramis's eye, but he sensed a gratitude that would never be spoken.

"Very well, let us begin!" He led Loki to the center of the clearing, keeping an eye on the gun in his hands as they went. He got the impression his angel had never touched on before. Why would he have needed too?

"You see that tree? The one with the thick, twisted branch?" Loki nodded. "I want you to aim for the knot on that branch. Aim, but do not shoot, alright?"

Loki lifted the arquebus and pointed it in the general direction of the tree. Aramis fought not to wince. The entire stance was wrong and the gun was wavering slightly in his hands. Then a delicious idea occurred to him and he stepped closer, one hand sliding up Loki's arm towards the gun.

"Your arm is too tense," he murmured, trying to sound didactic rather than desirous. He let his hand linger against Loki's forearm as he tapped his wrist with an index finger. "You want to keep your wrist and grip loose, or the aim will slip."

Loki nodded, looking intent on his instruction. He made no move to make Aramis remove his hand.

Interesting.

Aramis wondered how far he could take this. The thought made heat uncurl in his belly.

"Your stance is too narrow," he purred next. He moved his left leg until it rested immediately behind Loki's right and then nudged forward, dragging Loki's leg out and pressing his own against the whole length of it in the process, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

There was a definite pink tinge to Loki's cheeks now, but still he said nothing, staring at the tree branch with single-minded focus.

Shifting so he stood almost directly behind Loki, Aramis allowed himself an excited smirk before dropping his hands to Loki's waist. "Tighten the muscles here," he said, all but whispering in Loki's ear as his hands reached around to tap against the slender man's stomach. He could feel the hard lines beneath his fingers. It was enough to make him feel a tad weak at the knees.

He leaned forward so his chin was nearly resting on Loki's shoulder. He heard the quick intake of breath, but still Loki did not stop him. Hope was flaring in his chest, so brightly it hurt.

"Now, I want you to watch the target. The target: not the muzzle of the gun, alright? Stare straight at the center and let your mind position to gun accordingly. Are you ready?"

Aramis could feel the tension in Loki's lean frame, and in a fit of bravery allowed himself to lean forward so that his chest was brushing Loki's back.

"When you are ready, exhale and pull the trigger."

For a moment, time slowed down. All Aramis was aware of was Loki's breath beside his ear, the warm expanse of his back. Then Loki breathed out a long sigh and his finger tightened on the trigger.

The crack of the arquebus was loud in the crisp morning air, and the corresponding crack from the exploding tree branch sounded like an echo. Loki took two steps forward seemingly without thinking, staring at the shattered branch in fascination. Aramis mourned the loss of his warmth, but he could hardly fault him.

"I did it," Loki muttered, sounding shocked.

"You did," Aramis said warmly, smiling when Loki turned to look at him. "And you did it far better than I expected. Not many hit the target at all their first try, let alone so close to the center." Loki had hit a foot or two away from the knot Aramis had set as the target, but D'Artagnan and Porthos had both failed to hit anything their first times.

"Flattery," Loki muttered, but there was no edge to his words.

"No, I mean it," Aramis told him sincerely. "That was really very impressive_, mon ange._ You have my congratulations. Of course, all credit goes to my brilliant instruction."

"Of course," Loki echoed, smirking slightly.

"Now, would you like to see the master at work?" Aramis asked trying not to rub his hands together in glee. It was obvious Loki liked the guns, was impressed by them. Aramis was dying to show off.

"I suspect you will show me regardless," Loki replied dryly, but Aramis caught the flicker of interest in those emerald eyes.

It was the work of a minute to reload the gun. Loki was silent throughout, but his eyes tracked the motions. "Are you aiming for the same thing?" Loki asked, curiosity getting the better of him at last.

Aramis shook his head. "You see the bunch of acorns hanging in the top branches?" he asked, intentionally choosing an impressive looking target.

It worked: Loki's eyes widened ever so slightly.

"Keep watching them," he whispered, lining up the arquebus. There was no conscious thought to the movement, just years of training and instinct. He exhaled, dipping his head just as he pulled the trigger.

Loki's small gasp told him he'd made the shot perfectly. He didn't bother to look, flashing Loki a proud smile as he tipped his hat. To his delight, Loki was looking at him with an expression simultaneously appraising and impressed.

"We'd best be getting back now," Aramis said lightly, breaking the silence where most people would have been either gushing his praises or cursing his unnaturalness. Loki, he knew, would do neither, but the new warmth in his eyes was more than enough for Aramis.

They were silent on the return journey as well. Porthos eyed them when they got into camp, which the others were busily breaking down.

"Where've you been?" he asked suspiciously, but Aramis caught the slight protective edge to his tone, and he smiled to show all was well.

"Practicing," he said slyly, winking. Porthos scowled, rolling his eyes, but beside him, Aramis saw Loki smirk.

Perhaps he had finally gotten through to his dark angel after all.

* * *

Loki found himself in an unusually good mood that evening as they invaded the tavern for the second time. Aramis had found him a spare pistol in the armory and had attached it to his belt himself, instructing him extensively on how to care for the weapon. Loki didn't know yet how to load it, but Aramis had promised to teach him that too.

That last bit had been delivered with a cheeky wink, but Loki found he didn't especially mind. It wasn't like he was enjoying the attention, not at all, but he found it less distasteful than he had previously.

They were clustered around a pair of hastily pushed-together tables. Thor was regaling the group with tales of his many adventures, occasionally glancing over at Loki, who would need to substitute 'bear' for 'bilgesnipe' or some such nonsense. Aramis had gone with Athos to collect more wine.

To Loki's faint displeasure, Athos returned first, stumbling towards the seat Aramis had vacated. It also happened to be the only one beside Loki. The other empty seat was across the table, next to Porthos.

Aramis followed Athos after a few seconds. Loki watched as he paused, eyes darting from the empty seat to the one Athos was fast nearing, and Loki read the momentary flash of regret in his gaze. Then he shrugged, smiling broadly as he passed about new bottles, moving quickly around the table as if to cut Athos off.

As he walked past Porthos, a thick arm reached out and snagged him around the waist, pulling him into the empty chair with affectionate ease. Loki felt a brief flash of irritation shoot through him.

Then it happened again as he berated himself for even caring.

That might have been the end of it right there, if it had not been for Porthos.

The large mortal was staring across the table at Loki. No, not staring… glaring might be the more appropriate word. There was a defiant challenge in the tilt of his head and the gleam of dark eyes as his gaze burned into Loki, sending an irrational wave of fury crashing through him.

He looked at Aramis, half expecting the man to do something ridiculous, like leap to his defense, but Aramis was in the process of draping an arm across Porthos's shoulder, one hand pawing at his chest.

Loki stood abruptly. "What's the matter?" Porthos asked scornfully, not even bothering to keep his voice down. Beside him, Aramis had failed to register either the words or Loki's action. "Leaving so soon?" His tone was mocking.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Loki leveled his best disdainful sneer on the man and stalked from the tavern, ending up in an alley. Aramis did not say a word in protest.

How stupid could he get? He had been flattered by the attention this morning, by the interest and the touching and by the Valkyrie, he was unworthy of his own title. A mere mortal had out him in such a position that the loss of his base affections left Loki angry and hurt. This would not do.

He had forgotten, in the excitement of the morning. He had forgotten what had been evident since the first day on Midgard. Aramis and Porthos were an item.

He felt his lip curl in disdain at the thought. Aramis must not be a very loyal lover, if he often behaved the way he had this morning. It was despicable.

It didn't bother Loki that Aramis had made his choice so blatantly. Not in the slightest.

A noise behind him alerted Loki to another presence in the alley. He turned, one hand automatically going for his sword but falling to rest on the pistol instead.

It was Aramis. He swayed drunkenly as he walked, but he seemed determined to get to Loki. Any warmth Loki had felt towards him this morning had dissipated. He sneered at him as he approached.

"What do you want?" he asked scathingly. Aramis looked up at him, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Are you well?" he asked, concern warm in his voice. "You left rather early, no?"

"What business is it of yours when I leave?" Loki snarled. Aramis's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"I was merely concerned, that's all," he said placating. "I do not wish to overstep my bounds."

"Overstep your bounds?" Loki asked incredulously. "What do you call that little performance this morning?"

To Loki's spiteful satisfaction, Aramis blushed deeply. But the idiot clearly did not know when to quit. Couldn't he see that Loki was above him and would never have him?

"I would call it a pleasant morning spent with a very attractive man," Aramis said. Loki fought the sense of surprise at the unexpected bluntness. But that just made things all the easier.

"You have no claim to my mornings or to any of my time at all," he said harshly. His pride had been wounded, and he would make Aramis hurt in return. He was no mere mortal, to be swayed by sentiment. He was a god, cold and implacable.

"I was not aware you felt that way," Aramis replied stiffly, and Loki felt as if he could see the walls crashing down in front of those warm brown eyes. Loki went for the kill.

"I'm sure there's plenty of whores who would gladly warm your bed for you. Do not expect the likes of me to stoop to your level," Loki spat.

It seemed that was the final straw. The emotion drained from Aramis's face, leaving a flawless mask in its place. "Very well. I am sorry to have brought you grief with my unwelcome advances. I assure you, I shall leave you be in the future. Good night."

With that, Aramis turned on his heel and left, heading back into the tavern. _Back to his lover,_ Loki thought viciously.

A sense of triumph pounded through him as he walked back to his room. He had won, had eviscerated the opposition. But somewhere within him, a voice often kept silent cried out at the senselessness of his rejection, demanded he reconsider. He stood strong.

He does not know how long he stands in his room, savoring his victory, when he hears noises in the hall outside. It takes only a moment to realize who it is: Aramis and Porthos, returned to Porthos's rooms for the night. Thor must be going elsewhere.

His lip curled in disdain for these petty mortals and their sentiment, but his heart wasn't in it.

He could convince himself that he did not care about that charming mortal, but he could not explain why a hole had opened in his chest when he heard Aramis enter Porthos's room.

* * *

Porthos wasn't ashamed to admit he was feeling ever so slightly victorious. Aramis was in his room, slightly drunk and cuddly, and Porthos had maybe been missing his attentions a bit since Loki came around. It wasn't that he was jealous, but he didn't think Loki deserved Aramis, and why shouldn't he enjoy him in the meantime?

He ran a hand down Aramis's arm comfortingly, trying to dispel the lost look that had been in his eyes since he returned to the tavern, but when his hand dropped to unfasten Aramis's jacket, he was gently nudged away.

"Not tonight," he murmured, and the hurt lingering in his eyes cut through Porthos. He enveloped his friend in a crushing hug instead, offering a different sort of comfort. Aramis relaxed against him, heaving another sigh.

Porthos was at a loss. Aramis had always been the most tactile of them, seeking comfort in the physical. He had been so earlier that evening. Porthos had certainly welcomed the familiar feeling of Aramis' hand against his chest before he had gone chasing after Loki…

_Oh._

Porthos rested his forehead against Aramis's, sighing along with him. "You love him, don't you?"

He was close enough to see Aramis's face fall into miserable lines, and his chest tightened with concern. "But he doesn't love me back," he whispered.

The passion of a moment before dissipated, and Porthos found his heart broken. Not for himself; he had always hoped Aramis would find someone to love in a way that went beyond what he and Porthos shared, and he knew Aramis wanted that for him as well. No, his heart was breaking for Aramis.

He knew Aramis had been pursuing Loki intently for the past few days, but he honestly had never stopped to consider that Aramis wouldn't get what he wanted. He was irresistible. The thought of Loki not wanting Aramis was just further proof of the man's strangeness. Why had Aramis chosen someone so cold to love, someone so undeserving of his warmth and affection?

"At least you know that he, ah, swings that way," he said, hoping to lighten the mood and trying, as he had been these past few days, not to think about blondes whose smiles felt like the sun dawning.

Aramis smiled sadly and muttered, "What a pair we make."

"It'll work out," Porthos rumbled reassuringly. Then, desperate to hear Aramis laugh, he rubbed his beard all along the side of Aramis's face, making the smaller man yelp and wriggle free of his embrace. A smile had lit his features at last, and Porthos returned it, pleased with himself.

"You should stay here for the night," he said when Aramis stopped chuckling. "It's cold and wet and you're drunk. Thor and Athos will probably wind up crashing at his place, along with D'Artagnan, if they keep going at that rate."

He saw Aramis's uncertainty and added, "It'll just be sleeping, Aramis. I promise."

Aramis smiled ruefully at him. "Thank you, my friend, but I would prefer to spend the night in my own room."

A spike of anger flashed through Porthos as he saw once more the depth of Aramis's burgeoning devotion. Loki could live for a thousand lifetimes and never deserve him. How could he not see what he was missing?

But he did not say any of this, for he knew it was not what Aramis needed to hear. He merely nodded and opened the door for him.

But in the hallway his good intentions deserted him and he blurted out, "Why him, Aramis? He's so cold, and he'll just make you miserable. You deserve better, someone worthy of you. So why him?"

Aramis glanced at his bedroom door, an unreadable expression on his face. "My heart knows what it wants."

He turned away, one hand on the doorknob, but Porthos spoke up suddenly as he remembered the question he hadn't asked.

"What did Loki say to you outside the tavern? That made you think he doesn't love you back?"

The way Aramis's hand flinched was all the answer he needed. A shamed flush crept across his cheeks as he glanced back at Porthos. "Nothing I wish to discuss, my friend," he said softly, nodding a goodnight as he pushed his way into the bedroom and closed the door.

Raw fury bubbled up within Porthos. It didn't matter what Loki had said; what mattered was that awful look it left in Aramis's eyes. This was unforgivable.

Without Aramis's soothing presence, Porthos gave in to the anger, storming out to the courtyard. A bench went flying with a crash as his foot connected solidly with it. He was about to turn his attention to the table when a voice interrupted him.

"What has the table done to earn your wrath?" Athos drawled, strolling over with only a hint of a stagger. The man could hold his liquor.

"It's Aramis," Porthos told him irritably. "He's got feelings for _Loki_," he spat the name, "And it's leaving him miserable. That little bastard was cruel to him."

"And what exactly can you do about that?" Athos asked calmly. Porthos turned, ready to snap at him for his callousness, when he realized the other man was only being reasonable. There was nothing he could do. He could not persuade Aramis to give up, and he could not confront Loki without angering Aramis. He slumped onto the remaining bench, feeling defeated.

"I just want him to be happy," he said, his voice sounding small even in his own ears.

Athos nodded sympathetically. "Aramis will do as he always will and follow his heart until the bitter end."

"The bitter part is what I'm worrying about," he growled as he rose to his feet.

"Men are worse with their hearts than women, whether it's for love or friendship," Athos sighed. Porthos didn't respond, already turning to head back up to his room. He would be there if Aramis needed him during the night, or any night to come.

He would be there no matter what, because that cold-eyed bastard would break his warm heart.

And he would rip that smirking man to pieces if he hurt Aramis again.

* * *

**AN: ****When I beta-ed this chapter, I was speechless for that entire shooting scene. Talk about hot under the power-blue cape, AMIRITE? Also, I know that this is a Lokimis fic, but how can anyone write Musketeers without a bit of Portamis fluff in it? - K  
**

******^No one can write any Musketeers without a bit of Portamis, obviously. Portamis is my guiding light and must be included in all things. - L**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN:** **Aramis the unstoppable heads towards Loki the immovable. Results may vary, will it be fluff or failure? Enjoy!**

**Those constellation names are, indeed, real Norse ones. As a city girl, whenever I think of what Loki and Aramis see when they look at the skies just makes me sigh jealously - and not only because they get to see a sea of stars... - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Loki stared at stars that didn't make sense. The constellations were wrong, the four stags were missing and he felt like _Dvalin_, the sleeper. Even _Thiassi's Eyes_, which the Midgardians called Gemini, were absent from the speckled expanse before him. It was unnerving to look upon such incoherence, and yet he thought that he could finally feel the World Tree calling him.

It called with his mother's voice.

Loki jerked awake and stared at an unfortunately familiar ceiling. It seemed to taunt him with its spattered marks amongst the dirty whiteness, a mocking dissimilarity to the purity of a night sky.

He instinctively reached out with his magic, ignoring how needy it felt to search for something recognisable, but nothing returned his plea. Instead, he was forced to remember exactly where he was and how he had ended up there.

His lip curled into a grimace as he recalled how much idiotic pain he had felt at hearing Aramis and Porthos in the hallway, as if the slighter man had deliberately taunted Loki by being noisy and then disappearing into Porthos' room.

He hoped the Midgardian had choked in his sleep.

The grumpy rage boiled within him until his fists clenched into the sheets. The worst part of it was that he was angry at himself as much as he was at Aramis, for it wasn't _entirely _the mortal's fault that Loki had almost succumbed to those warm charms.

No, it was Loki who had come to rely on those lingering, hungry looks, and seeing them aimed at someone _else_, someone who was nothing like Loki, managed to incite him to wrathful violence.

What had he been _thinking? _That, in physical form alone, he stood any chance compared to the hulking form of Porthos? Yes, Loki was strong, he was powerful, but it was _different_, and he had thought Aramis had appreciated that.

Instead, the little flirt had finally listened to his sneering denials, and Loki had pushed him away forever.

Curse Aramis, curse Porthos, curse this hateful, disgusting, mortal planet that he was stranded upon, doomed to see their ridiculous happiness and _know _that he could never experience it-

A snore broke the silence.

Loki leaped out of bed and wondered why his senses hadn't alerted him to an intruder, and the realisation made him curse himself after cursing everything else. Aramis, still fully-clothed, was sat in his chair, and Loki didn't consider Aramis a threat.

Not in the cut-throat type of way, at least, for the man was certainly risky in other ways.

Loki glared in confused amazement at the evidence; guilt blooming as his curses still rang in his mind, for Aramis looked exactly the same as he had scant few hours ago. Loki hadn't realised that he had taken note, but he _knew_ that the ties across Aramis shirt hadn't been touched.

Aramis had clearly returned sometime after he had fallen asleep, and to what? To sleep, alone, on an uncomfortable chair, after Loki had denied him?

Had Aramis truly chosen that, over what Porthos had so blatantly offered last night?

A strange uncertainty overcame Loki, a dubiousness that he had never felt before and the void that had opened the night before became sickened. It made him wonder silently, _what am I, to deserve this?_

He watched Aramis sleep, felt something so very similar to _sentiment _completely flood his system, and he murmured the question out loud.

Warm brown eyes that flashed with uncertainty opened and Aramis smiled sleepily. "Good morning, _mon-_ Loki."

Aramis' smile dropped as he looked away from Loki hastily, and Loki felt the sentiment tearing itself apart as it cried out at the loss of that ridiculous term, the one that seemed to ring with such unrequited affection even though he had no idea what it meant.

Was that not Loki's downfall? To deny things that he didn't understand? And yet, with the painful clarity of hindsight, he realised that a growing part of him _wanted_ to understand this time.

Aramis smiled nervously when Loki was unable to look away, and he felt as if he was staring a once-in-a-very-long-lifetime chance in its attractive face.

_What am I, to deserve this?_

Loki simply blinked and distractedly watched Aramis stretch in his chair, the man's shirt rising to reveal tan skin that made Loki try to remember why, exactly, he had turned him away last night.

The reasons came easily and they were numerous; they needed to return home, to where they belonged, and Loki was a mage, an immortal, so very superior.

And yet he did not feel so superior when Aramis ran a tired hand through his scruffy hair and Loki felt his chest tighten at the sight, felt his fingers twitch with the sudden need to push a stray brown curl behind Aramis' ear.

Because he could not deny how incredibly, foolishly, _grateful _he was that Aramis had returned.

Aramis didn't notice his silence – in fact, he was probably used to it by now – and looked down to eye his shirt distastefully. It was still a little bloody from their various scrapes and apparently it had finally crossed the boundaries of acceptability, because Aramis drew it over his head in a swift movement of flexing muscle.

Loki's mouth dried and he forced his gaze aside, desperately deliberating why he was so affected. He had seen Thor and his idiot friends half-naked before, and although he had sometimes allowed himself to admire Fandral's form, the sight had never made heat betray his cheeks.

He had certainly never felt an almost overwhelming craving to trace his fingers over faint lines etched into tan skin.

His neat stitches had disappeared, he realised belatedly with a quick glance to confirm. He must have healed Aramis more thoroughly than he had thought when they had been sat around the fire.

"What would you usually do with the thread?" Loki found himself asking, and Aramis answered with his head buried in his cupboard.

"Clip it out after two weeks, leaves a dashing scar," the man replied, grinning over his shoulder at the last. Aramis then frowned at Loki's regard and question, and placed a tentative hand below the back of his neck, his eyes widening when he felt no mark. "Well," he said with forced nonchalance after noticing Loki's frown, "I suppose I had too many already."

Loki allowed himself a brief once-over, just so that he could answer Aramis, and decided that the man was wrong. Yes, there were scars, physical proof of action and a cause well fought for, but they were not indicative of the self-deprecation in Aramis' tone.

As someone who did not scar, Loki was merely fascinated by the interesting symbols, not disgusted.

He stepped forward, feeling oddly disconnected from his body as his hand lifted to brush the small but dark line across Aramis' forehead. Aramis' pupils dilated immediately, and his breath caught when Loki murmured, "They suit the life you lead."

The reactions pleased him, he wasn't sure why, but they did. Loki couldn't quite stop himself from watching his hand fall back to his side, his eyes trailing avidly down a chest dusted with dark hair and shuddered with Aramis' stuttered breathing.

"The life of a fool who throws himself in harm's way?" Aramis asked with a shaky laugh, and Loki dragged his gaze back to meet blown brown eyes that seemed ever-so-nervous.

"Yes," Loki replied with a smirk, "But a brave one." Aramis ducked his head and beamed, until Loki caught his chin with his fingers and added with a hint of a threat, "Perhaps too brave."

If Aramis had seemed nervous before, it disappeared under an onslaught of fire that made Loki's own breath catch as he released him. Aramis turned to charming in the blink of hungry eyes and said gracefully, "It is worth it to keep those I admire, safe."

Loki frowned at that self-sacrificing statement and turned away, finding it surprisingly difficult to do so. "I will not pretend to know how that feels, survival is too important to me."

"We will see," Aramis said with what sounded like a smile, and Loki didn't want to deign it with a response.

He was no hero; he did not take blades for others or rampage through the woods on revenge missions. Thor did, but his brother did not have to worry about lasting damage. It was another reason as to why they needed to leave; these Musketeers were too valiant- too _senseless._

They were dangerous.

* * *

Aramis' mind was reeling, he had no idea what had just happened.

He hadn't been able to deny himself the pleasure of Loki's presence, of being able to wake up to such a gorgeous sight, which was why he had thrown caution to the wind and returned to his room instead of staying with Porthos.

It was with a thread of unease that he had seen Loki watching him when he awoke, and Aramis had been so very worried that Loki would deny him again. Those truly derisive words still rang in his head, and yet here he was, anyway.

He was such a fool.

And yet, just then, when Aramis had been confronted with silence and been tempted to run for Porthos, Loki had seemed concerned for his safety, especially when Aramis had tried to tell him that _he _was one who he admired. It had put such startling vulnerability on Loki's face, and Aramis had _seen _it, because his angel had almost ramped his heart into oblivion by crowding him and brushing a gentle finger over the scar on his forehead.

Aramis had never liked that mark more.

He knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would never be able to turn away from the absolute authority in Loki's emerald eyes, certainly never from the hidden strength that lay coiled within that slender form. A viciously hot part of Aramis knew that, somehow, Loki could out-power him.

And _that _was positively mind-blowingly attractive.

Loki didn't turn back around from his almost prudish retreat until Aramis had tugged a clean shirt over his head. It made Aramis sigh sadly, unable to ignore the feeling of how he had missed something important, as if he had missed a chance to ensnare Loki once and for all, for it seemed that he had finally been succumbing to his charm offensive.

When a noise sounded from beyond, Loki seemed to glare at the wall that they shared with Porthos, and Aramis' brain took a moment to catch up with the reaction. Was it… _jealousy _that caused that striking scowl?

And then that scowl smoothed as it fixated on his slightly bared chest, and Aramis had to hide a delighted smile.

Maybe he hadn't quite missed the chance.

Aramis held no illusions that he was anywhere near conquering his angel, but when he had finally coaxed Loki into breathing distance and could have kissed the stunning flush along his cheekbones, he thought that he might just be a little closer.

A knock at the door had Loki tensing, so Aramis held up a placating hand, because he already knew who it would be.

Porthos' glare was something that Aramis had seen countless times, and although it warmed his heart to see it aimed at a scowling Loki, it would never compare to emerald eyes that never failed to make his pulse jump.

"You alright?" Porthos asked gruffly, his expression turning to one of concern when he finally looked at him.

"Yes, _mon ami, _I'm fine." Porthos gave him a look that said he wasn't buying it, so Aramis chuckled and added, "_Je t'assure, _I am quite _bouleversé._"

"_You _are?" Porthos replied in quiet tones, and Aramis let his happy shrug say, _well, I hope it's Loki who has undergone a drastic change._

Porthos grunted in reluctant acceptance and jerked his head outside. "Treville wants us," he said grumpily, but his hand gently rested against Aramis' hip where Loki couldn't see.

It was a gesture of comfort and Aramis smiled his gratitude, nodding his head in fond dismissal. When Porthos left, Aramis turned to see Loki's look of complete scathing antipathy disappear almost immediately. Aramis considered it and wondered whether something should be established, something that, perhaps, Loki didn't realise.

Men could be so very stubborn.

"You know," Aramis said idly as he fetched his weapons, "I think Porthos has a _tendre _for your brother."

Aramis almost couldn't restrain the bark of laughter that wanted to sound at the absolute shock on Loki's face. Was it because he finally realised that there was no relationship between Aramis and Porthos, or because he had a sibling's level of disgust at the thought of his brother intimate with someone?

Both made Aramis shake in withheld laughter, for it probably wasn't often that Loki had to have something pointed out to him.

Finally, Aramis could bear the delightfully affronted expression for no longer. "Come, _mon ange_, let us see what Treville has for us today."

Loki aimed a calculating look at him, as if able to tell that he wanted to laugh, but there wasn't the usual level of coldness in it, instead it was almost soft exasperation. In fact, Loki might have even huffed happily when Aramis hadn't called him by his true name.

Aramis couldn't stop his smile then, because everything that Loki had done since he had woken up was telling him that, perhaps, there was a glimmer of hope, of possibility between them.

And that was worth any tedious mission that they might be sent on.

As they walked out, Loki appeared at his left side, and his fallen angel felt right, there.

* * *

**AN:** **The thought of Loki and Thor acting like brothers just makes me want to roll on the floor and squee, whereas Loki and Aramis just make me want to scream in excitement. The brainstorming we do for this fic is just capslock and exclamation marks, so please join in with us and review! :D - K  
**

**^It's also moments of shocked silence any time we come across the _perfect_ idea and temporarily forget how to breath. - L**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: It's a ho-down, show-down in the woods. There's a Minothor scuffle, Athos wonders why he doesn't just carry a barrel of wine on his back, and then Loki taunts the Minotaur. Athos close-talks until everyone is a puddle of shame, and Aramis becomes the Queen of Clean. - K  
**

**He is a beautiful Queen. - L**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE  
**

Loki had wanted nothing more than to relax quietly in camp after a long day.

But with these companions, naturally that was not to be.

He was lounging beside Thor, who had thrown himself down on the ground and was now sprawled out like some ridiculous rug, when Porthos, who had been stretching by the fire, glanced over at them appraisingly. Or rather, at Thor.

He remembered Aramis's implication that Porthos had… _feelings_ for his brother. The thought was one he had difficulty wrapping his head around, and yet Aramis had no reason to deceive him, at least not in that. And so he had watched the pair of them, and while he could not speak for his brother, there was a certain hunger in Porthos's glances that made him wonder if Aramis was not correct.

It was not as clear as, say, Aramis's regard, but then he got the impression Porthos was somewhat more subtle. He wouldn't be sitting far too close to the object of his attention as Aramis was currently doing. If Loki so much as moved his leg his thigh would brush Aramis's.

And now Porthos was sauntering over, a broad grin stretched across his face, and Loki had to fight the desire to hiss at him. He had disliked the man when he'd viewed him merely as a rival of sorts, but a never before seen protective aspect of his nature had risen within him. He wasn't sure he wanted thos man near Thor.

Thor, however, clearly lacked all sense of self-preservation, for he was already sitting up and calling a greeting to the approaching Musketeer. Out of the corner of his eye, Loki could see Aramis watching the proceedings with interest. Or perhaps he was just watching Loki.

The thought sent an unexpectedly warm feeling through his chest. Hope was a wretched thing.

"Tired?" Porthos asked casually as he neared them. He and Aramis exchanged a glance that made Aramis's mouth twitch at the corners.

"Not at all," Thor said, sounding ridiculously happy for a man who had just trekked across the countryside.

Porthos grinned hugely. "How about a rematch?" His flexed his muscles ever so slightly as he spoke. Loki took it back; he was not subtle. At all.

"A fine idea!" Thor cried, bounding to his feet. Loki could hear Aramis chuckling softly beside him as the two stripped down to shirts and breeches for the second time, circling one another on a broad grassy stretch near the fire.

Loki honestly didn't know what Porthos hoped to achieve by these bouts. He supposed, judging by the man's size, there was a certain reputation at stake. Perhaps he was not used to losing when it came to hand-to-hand. But he had no hope whatsoever of beating Thor. Their strength alone made it impossible, and Thor had lifetimes of experience behind him.

Nevertheless, Porthos put on a good show, managing to land a punch to Thor's jaw that must have left his head ringing. It was all for naught, however. Within a few minutes Thor had him pinned in the dust and Athos glanced over from where he was studying a map to declare the winner.

"That was better than the last!" Thor said, smiling as he helped Porthos to his feet. Loki eyed the grin still etched on Porthos's face with distrust. No one should be so happy about losing. Perhaps he should do something about that.

"I don't know why you bothered," he said derisively, noting the way Porthos's smile seemed to freeze the instant he spoke. "It's clear to everyone that you're outmatched."

"Loki…" Thor began warning, but Porthos cut him off.

"Is that right?" he asked, anger beginning to color his tone. "I'll have you know I'm the best in the regiment." Aramis smiled proudly at that, and Loki was inexplicably irritated by the simple gesture.

"Then your regiment must not have much to offer," he sneered. Ah, that had done it.

"Why don't you give it a shot then?" he asked challengingly.

"Please, what reason would I have to scuffle about in the dirt?" Loki sniffed. He had no interest in fighting Thor's double. He hated wrestling.

As he spoke, he glanced to his left just in time to see Aramis's face fall slightly. Had he- did he want to see Loki fight Porthos?

Well, it seemed there was _one_ reason.

"I suppose someone ought to deflate that ego," he said, letting his hand fall to the hilt of his sword in what he hoped would sway Porthos towards his weapon of choice.

It didn't work. "Nah, I meant a _real _fight."

Loki bristled, narrowing his eyes and glaring at the large mortal before him. How dare he deride him?

"Very well," he hissed, undoing his sword belt and shoving it at Aramis. He rose haughtily, dropping his cloak to the floor. "But I won't go easy on you." Porthos chuckled, obviously confident, and Loki smirked. It would be fun to wipe that grin off his face.

As he pulled off his jacket, trying very hard to ignore the way Aramis was ogling him, Loki noticed Thor clap a hand to Porthos's shoulder. No doubt about to warn him of Loki's less than honorable tendencies. Well, that wouldn't do.

"Be wary, my friend, Loki-" Thor began, but before he could finish Loki was already launching himself at Porthos, hitting him hard in the chest with a narrow shoulder and knocking the wind out of him as he staggered back several feet.

Loki didn't even have to look to know that Aramis was wearing an expression of blissful delight.

Porthos narrowed his eyes at Loki, recovering quickly and darting in with a roundhouse that might have taken a lesser beings head clean from its shoulders.

But Loki was no lesser being, and he ducked easily, jabbing an uppercut into the larger man's ribs as his momentum carried him past. He was so easy to read, this Musketeer. He was, in terms of style, the mortal equivalent of Thor, and Loki had taken his brother down a fair number of times. This would be so much easier.

He was faster, stronger, and smarter, and he would use that to his advantage.

He dodged a high kick and whirled to the side, hand snapping out to catch Porthos's jaw. The larger man growled in irritation and lashed out with a heavy fist. Loki was a heartbeat to slow and it caught him head on, colliding with his chest to send him crashing into the dust.

He sat for a moment, taken by surprise at the mortal's strength. He saw Porthos glance over at their audience and catch Aramis's eye, flexing his muscles impressively.

Rage boiled within him, tearing at his focus and loosening the barriers he'd erected to keep his magic at bay. Loki's eyes narrowed and he flared his magic down his arms to glint at his fingertips.

Porthos would not rise well from this.

* * *

It wasn't until Athos noted the way Thor was beginning to pace about the campsite that he paid the wrestling match any attention. It wasn't such an unusual diversion among his companions, after all. But Thor seemed almost concerned, and that in turn concerned him.

The match didn't seem anything other than friendly at first glance, but Athos had watched Porthos fight too many times to know when he wasn't holding back, and the way each fist lashed out as if he wanted nothing more than to shatter his opponent was a bad sign. And Athos had not known Loki long, but there was an edge to every movement that had him setting down the map and observing intently.

He rose to his feet just as Porthos tried an underhanded move on Loki that the man should not have been able to dodge, but somehow did. To his surprise, Loki darted back in with an equally dirty trick, catching Porthos between the shoulders with a well-placed elbow.

Thor winced in apparent sympathy but Aramis was watching with what could only be described as hunger in his eyes. Honestly, these men would be the death of them all. He'd never seen him so easily compromised.

Porthos landed a blow to Loki's cheekbone that actually made Aramis's jaw drop. The sheer lust radiating off the man was obscene. Athos was glad D'Artagnan didn't seem to notice.

"Shall I pinch you?" he murmured, moving to stand beside Aramis ad chuckling at the dazed look on his face.

Aramis smiled distractedly, not looking away from the scene as he replied, "Best dream I've ever had."

"Aren't you perhaps being a bit obvious, my friend?" he asked after Aramis nearly leapt forward, fingers twitching to wipe the blood from Porthos's newly split lip, or so he assumed.

Aramis looked away at last to cast him a scathing glance. "One must be open in matters of the heart," he said loftily. Whatever else he might have added was lost as Loki neatly tripped Porthos, bearing them both to the ground.

Athos snorted and strolled around the match to where Thor was pacing, hoping that their new friends would not prove some sort of enemies in disguise. That would surely break Aramis's too-open heart.

There he paused, sizing up the giant while the fight grew increasingly fierce in the background. He had not paid close attention to the match before this, but he had watched Thor fight in the ambush, and it had been enough to form some impressions.

He was so like Porthos, and yet so different where it mattered. Porthos Porthos knew when to hold himself back for the sake of his brothers, but Thor looked like he was too sure of his own strength. He worried about that in battle. Thor might throw himself forward with no thought of the danger others would be put in trying to follow him.

Loki, though… Loki was another matter entirely.

Athos turned his attention back to the match, which had turned into some sort of competition to see who could inflict the nastiest bruises without actively seeming like they were trying to murder their opponent.

Loki was a mystery to him. Less open than Thor, he gave Athos the impression of a man who knew how to lie, and lie well. While that didn't necessarily mean he was untrustworthy, he held himself at a distance from them all.

All the same, Athos fostered a great deal of respect for the man. He knew the signs of one who kept his heart to himself for fear of being hurt. He only hoped Loki was acting from caution rather than personal experience.

A bellow from Porthos snapped him out of his thoughts and the corners of his mouth twitched as he watched the larger man regain his feet and throw himself forward to tackle Loki.

Which was apparently exactly what Loki had been waiting for. He danced to the side, one leg hooking Porthos's out from under him so that he landed heavily in the dust. Athos shook his head: Porthos should have seen that coming.

Thor mumbled under his breath about Loki's dirty tricks, but Athos was pleased by it. One couldn't be honorable all the time. Sometimes underhanded tricks were needed. Being honorable could get you killed, because you were so busy fighting like a gentleman that you weren't looking for the dagger meant for your back.

Athos noticed D'Artagnan watching Loki with admiration in his eyes. He couldn't blame him: he himself wouldn't mind learning a few of those tricks. They'd all been thrashed by Porthos many times over.

Loki pressed his advantage, crowding in as Porthos rose and landing a heavy blow to his face that sent him stumbling back.

Athos had seen Porthos take bullets without moving an inch. Loki must be far stronger than he appeared.

"You must have fought often," he said conversationally, taking up a position at Thor's side. When the larger man glanced questioningly at him, he gestured towards Loki. "He's not at all cowed by Porthos's size."

"No, he isn't," Thor muttered, sounding distracted. Another blow landed on Porthos and Thor visibly winced.

Perhaps Aramis was not the only _compromised_ one.

There was a murderous rage in Porthos's eye as he blocked the next blow, lashing out to land his fist squarely against Loki's jaw. There was an audible crack and Loki stumbled backwards, hissing. Beside him, Thor stiffened in what Athos knew was apprehension.

This fight needed to end.

"I think it's time we ended this," he said, keeping his voice neutral so as to hide his concern.

"Aye," Thor replied, gratitude in his deep voice.

Athos stepped forward, crossing his arms and glaring at the combatants.

"Enough!"

* * *

To Thor's immense surprise and great relief, both fighters stopped immediately. He knew Loki had been on the verge of lashing out with his magic, past the limit of his control. He half-expected him to do so anyway, but he froze at Athos's quiet command.

For Porthos to obey was hardly a shock. No doubt he was conditioned to obey Athos's orders without question, but Loki? Loki didn't listen to anyone!

And yet there he stood, fists clenched, radiating rage, and yet definitely restraining himself and striving to obey Athos's order.

It was baffling.

"What do you think you are doing?" Athos asked, his voice deceptively soft. Thor watched, fascinated, as he turned his gaze on each in turn, including both Aramis and D'Artagnan, who looked thoroughly devastated to be on the receiving end of his leader's glare.

"Porthos." The large man's head snapped up and his back straightened as he stood at attention, cheeks darkening in shame. "I was under the impression you had a modicum of self-control. Was I mistaken?"

Porthos ducked his head, unable to meet Athos's eyes. "Let things get out of hand," he mumbled.

"What was that?" Athos inquired mildly.

"I let things get out of hand," Porthos repeated clearly, meeting Athos's eyes at last. "I apologize."

"I expect better," Athos said, and the disappointment was evident in his tone.

"Sorry." And this time there was genuine remorse in the apology. How had he managed to achieve that without shouting and punishment? It was miraculous.

Athos nodded, apparently satisfied. Thor noticed a smirk curling Loki's lip, as if his brother was enjoying watching Porthos's shame.

"And you, Loki-" Thor watched the smirk fall away in shock as the mortal turned to him, "I don't know what things are like where you came from, but is it common practice to attempt to inflict serious injuries on comrades in friendly sparring matches?"

"He wouldn't have been seriously injured," Loki muttered sullenly. Thor had to give his brother credit for courage. Had Athos been looking at him with that disappointed glare, he would not have the courage to speak back.

"That is not what I saw," Athos said bluntly, voice hardening ever so slightly but still managing to sound calm. "I saw two intelligent men brawling like schoolboys in the dust playing at soldiers."

Loki opened his mouth, but no words came out. Athos had shocked his silver-tongued brother into silence.

"In the short time you have been with us, I have come to expect more from you than such immaturity. Do not force me to revise my assessment."

Thor waited for the inevitable retort, knowing Loki would never remain silent while others criticized him, so the hush that followed Athos's words was a shock. His brother was staring at Athos, flushing from embarrassment, but there was a look in his eyes Thor had rarely seen before.

It looked like gratitude.

And then Thor understood. All their lives, if he or Loki had been reprimanded for getting in fights, or causing mischief, they had been told when brought before Odin only that their behavior was not befitting a prince. No one had ever expected anything of them beyond that. Their actions were defined by their titles, not their worth as individuals.

But Athos had told Loki he had seen worth in him and was disappointed when Loki behaved in a manner that did not correspond with that. Thor couldn't remember the last time someone had said anything like that to either of them without referencing proper royal behavior.

He wondered what it must be like to be part of a brotherhood where your actions determined your worth, rather than your birth. He found himself yearning for it.

Athos was not done yet, it seemed. Before releasing his men, he pinned D'Artagnan and Aramis with an irritated glare, though it seemed to be aimed more at the latter.

"And you two! You encouraged them. Did either of you think perhaps it was time to step in, or were you content to watch them rip each other to pieces?" he asked icily. D'Artagnan looked mortified, but Thor sensed the words were directed at Aramis, who had seemed to enjoy the fighting overmuch.

Neither man said anything, though Aramis at last had the grace to look ashamed. Athos swept a last disappointed glare across the group, including Thor this time, and sighed.

"Porthos, Loki, clean yourselves up. Throw yourselves in the stream if you must. As soon as you're clean, you're both on firewood duty. For the remainder of the evening. D'Artagnan, start dinner. Aramis, check if either of them bruised anything important. You've got first watch. Thor, check the horses. Dismissed."

Thor watched in disbelief as the Musketeers scrambled to obey the quiet commands. Porthos disappeared in the direction of the stream, returning a few moments later with two buckets of water. Aramis dug around in the packs, producing several clean rags, while D'Artagnan busied himself by the fire.

He wandered over to the horses, patting the stallion that had been assigned to him absentmindedly. He had never seen anyone inspire such loyalty in his followers. His father was obeyed, but he'd never witnessed his soldiers look so ashamed for disappointing him. Odin would rage when he was disobeyed and dole out punishments freely, and it left him with obedient men, but not loyal.

Athos was different. He was a fine leader, that much was clear, and he cared about his men personally, and they knew this and returned the regard to the point that the loss of his favor was more of a punishment than any he could order. Thor felt admiration for the mortal strum through him.

It was as if every lesson his instructors had tried to drum into his head on how to be a good leader had been wrong. They should have sent him to study with men like Athos instead.

Perhaps that was what a king should be.

* * *

Aramis was torn. He had a handful of rags to distribute between the two fighters, but who did he go to first? If he went to Loki, Porthos would be irritated, but if he went to Porthos, Loki might read it the wrong way.

Thankfully his dilemma was solved by Thor, who wandered back from the horses and commented on a large bruise spreading over Porthos's shoulder before he reached Aramis. Porthos smiled easily and shoved the second bucket of water in Loki's direction before engaging the blond giant in a laughing exchange.

Which left Aramis free to see to his angel.

Loki was sulking; there was really no better word for it. He glared at Aramis when he approached and was obviously eavesdropping on Porthos and Thor to check they weren't mocking him. It probably didn't help that Porthos kept shooting him smug looks over Thor's shoulder, especially when Thor loudly exclaimed that Loki ought to have been more careful.

Aramis would need to approach cautiously.

"I might have a new appreciation for wrestling after that display. Perhaps you could show me some moves? I _did_ show you my arquebus, after all," he said, winking outrageously.

It worked, to an extent. Loki stopped glaring at Porthos long enough to shoot Aramis a glare of his own, and he smiled more widely.

He handed back Loki's sword belt, taking advantage of the momentary attention focused on him. "I'm considering you the victor, anyway, _mon ange_."

Loki shot him a suspicious look, and Aramis smiled warmly at him.

"Come now. It's obvious where that fight would have ended, if not for Athos's intercession."

He silently apologized to Porthos for the insult. He wasn't at all sure where the fight was going. Truthfully, he hadn't been thinking about anything as common as the outcome when two beautiful men were essentially fighting over _him_, but he figured a little lie wouldn't hurt anyone.

Loki still said nothing, but a tiny smirk curled the corner of his lips as his anger seemed to ease, and he allowed Aramis to pass him a few of the rags. Dipping them in the water, he began wiping the dust from his hands.

Dust also coated his neck and face, and Aramis sensed an opportunity too delicious to ignore.

"Allow me," he murmured, snatching the freshly wetted rag from Loki's hand. When Loki protested, he announced grandly, "I am a trained physician. I must check you for injuries You heard our fearless leader."

It was an exaggeration, but it forced his angel to shut up, well aware that he couldn't simply announce he had no injuries to be tended. Aramis could see a few bruises beneath the dirt, but nothing like a man should have after such a bout.

Gently, he raised the cloth to Loki's face, swiping it carefully across one sharp cheekbone and relishing in the contact and the fact that Loki was actually allowing this. They sat in silence as Aramis slowly uncovered the handsome features, running the cloth down the line of Loki's jaw, across the bridge of his nose…

He kept cleaning long after the dust was gone. Loki didn't seem to notice.

A short while later he noticed Porthos rise and move towards the woods. He felt rather ashamed of himself for focusing solely on Loki when he knew his angel had no injuries to speak of. He would have to tend to Porthos's bruises and wounded pride when the other Musketeer returned from fetching firewood.

Porthos had not quite reached the line of the trees when Aramis realized something was wrong. He glanced around quickly and found the source of his disquiet. Athos had gone too still, watching the forest out of the corner of his eye.

A twig snapped ahead of Porthos, who paused, uncertain.

That was all the warning they received.

* * *

**AN: Thanks for reading, please review, or we'll send the Minotaur after you - and we _won't _send Aramis to clean you up, afterwards. (The Minotaur is basically the Woman in Black, now you know of it, it's coming. QUICK WRITE A REVIEW.) - K  
**

**^Legitimately scared right now. Tempted to review my own chapter to save myself. Though if the Minotaur is Porthos, no one will review on the off chance he'll show up at their houses. - L**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN:** **Thor learns that birth does not always equal worth, Aramis' flirtation risks all of their lives, and Loki battles with a millennium of conditioning that might very well have him leaving them all behind. Enjoy! - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Thor watched with amazement as Athos barked an order and the four Musketeers immediately leaped into action for some reason. They were like a well-oiled unit; even D'Artagnan who – he had learned from the boy's jokes with the older men – was fairly new to the group, still fell into place as if he had fought alongside them for years.

They were a formidable fighting force, fitting together like gears. He and Loki had fought from each other's backs for centuries, and yet even they did not manage to work so well that they didn't need to call out to the other.

The four formed a square, each looking to a side of the clearing, and Thor gratefully slid into the gap provided by Porthos who jerked his head to the side. Loki did the same beside Athos, and then they waited in tense silence for something.

There was a rustle in the foliage directly in front of him and then he felt Porthos signal Aramis with a nudge. Suddenly, Porthos gripped his arm to steady it, and then the barrel of Aramis' gun rested on top of his shoulder. The sound was like an explosion and he only managed to not duck instinctively because of Porthos' firm grip and the amusement on the man's face.

"Nice shot," Porthos said quietly to a grinning Aramis, and then said to him, "Forgot you wouldn't be expecting that."

He laughed and rubbed his ear, willing the ringing to subside but pleased that Porthos was pleased. "I do not know what I did, but I'm happy to help."

"You make a fantastic ledge, Thor," Aramis remarked teasingly, and Thor was surprised to see Loki's small smirk.

Loki was changing, Thor could see it happening, but he wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not. His brother was never one for camaraderie, he didn't enjoy the banter of friends and soldiers; he was ever quiet.

Thor had thought that the Musketeers would grate on Loki, and sometimes he gave the impression that they did, but then there were moments where his laugh was more jesting than jeering, like now.

Of course, that might be because he had only recently attempted to dismember Porthos using his hands.

Thor shook his head in disbelief when Aramis carefully explained the reloading process of his weapon to Loki, and Loki asked questions that had Aramis smiling in agreement.

He had never understood his brother, but if he was starting to relax and enjoy the company of worthy friends, perhaps being stranded on Midgard was the best thing that had ever happened to them.

Athos and D'Artagnan returned from the tree-line with a body held between them, and judging from the way Porthos clapped Aramis on the back and Loki's eyes lit with admiration, the killing shot had been a difficult one.

"A scout?" D'Artagnan asked of Athos, who nodded with a calculating glance at their surroundings.

"Yes, it would seem we have not yet been discovered, but they will come looking for him sooner or later."

Porthos did something strange then; he looked from Aramis, to Loki, to him, to D'Artagnan, before shrugging at a silent question from Athos and saying, "It's fine, we'll go south."

The four of them seemed to speak without actually speaking, it was a language that made both he and Loki frown in confusion, but then Aramis, after a long, careful look at Porthos, smiled at Loki and said, "We're north, then."

Athos turned to him with a commanding cast to his serious expression. "We will wait here, for they may send more to check on the scout's whereabouts."

Thor stiffened then and he knew why Athos had been authoritative, because Thor was not happy with that arrangement.

Loki caught his eye and gave a small shrug, turning away and easily falling in with Aramis as they walked off. To his side, Porthos and D'Artagnan disappeared in the other direction, and Thor was so shocked at his brother's simple compliance that he forgot to object.

"Should we not go with them?" he asked anxiously of Athos, worried for both his brother-in-blood and his brothers-in-arms.

Athos' regard was calm and perceptive, he _knew _that Thor did not like Loki absent from his side, did not like that Porthos might have to fight so soon after sparring, did not like standing _still _when the others were out there.

Possibly getting injured.

He began to pace, his palm clutching Mjölnir and itching to attack whoever it was that lurked in the woods.

Athos crouched to search the dead man's pockets and said without looking up, "Sit down, you're wearing me out."

Thor stared in surprise, concern lacing his veins as he watched the collected man. Thor's blood was thrumming in nervous anticipation, and yet Athos, who he had thought genuinely cared for his men, seemed completely unaffected. "Are you not worried?"

"Should I be?" Athos answered mildly, rifling through some papers he had found.

"How?" Thor asked incredulously of their leader, of the man who they all looked to for guidance. "How can you just let them go, is it not killing you?"

Athos did look up then, with a considering look that made Thor want to fidget, but then the man's tone seemed confiding, as if he was saying something that he would not otherwise have said. "Of course it is, but they do well in the field and I am more patient than they are, it makes sense for me to stay here, where they know where to find me."

There was logic in there, somewhere, but Thor couldn't see it, because all he could about was how it felt like they were doing _nothing _whilst the others risked their lives.

"What if they get hurt, what if one of them _dies_?" he asked desperately, because he had come to greatly respect Athos, and it was unsettling to see him seem so callous.

Athos flinched as if he had been struck, and his fingers held his sword's hilt as if seeking comfort as he replied gravely, "We are a team and I trust them with my life, I _know _that this is the best course of action, and yet if something were to happen to one of them…" Athos' eyes darkened with something like pain. "I would never forgive myself."

Thor felt some of his tension disappear, because he began to understand. It wasn't that Athos didn't care, it was that he cared _too much. _He knew of their strengths and their weaknesses and he planned accordingly, he had sent the impatient ones to roam and do what they did best, whilst he waited and strategised.

The waiting was what made Athos such a strong leader, for he didn't charge in recklessly, so focused on victory that he didn't look out for his companions. No, Athos thought ahead, he considered all of the possible eventualities all whilst ensuring that his men knew they could look to him for cool-headed guidance, because he only had their best interests at heart.

Athos truly _cared _for his men, and that made him more worthy than any other person that Thor had ever known.

"Teach me to be patient," he asked quietly, and a small smile quirked Athos' lips.

"It starts with sitting," Athos began, and Thor settled in to listen to a mortal man who should have been a king.

* * *

They had left the camp proper and were already picking their way through the woods. Aramis considered the way the sunlight dappled over Loki's hair and wondered whether it would be warm to the touch if he just reached out and-

"Would you normally have gone with Porthos?" Loki asked without turning around, interrupting Aramis' daydream.

"Ah," he hesitated but said honestly, "D'Artagnan is young yet; he fights better alongside one of us as we have trained so often."

It was only part of the truth. Porthos had silently asked his opinion and Aramis was only too happy to pair up with Loki. Perhaps he had been too keen though, for he still had not checked on Porthos' injuries and Athos had frowned slightly at his and D'Artagnan's backs.

No, they would be fine; D'Artagnan was a fine swordsman when he didn't let his emotions get the better of him, and whilst Porthos was a fiend for riling people up, he would look out for the boy.

"That did not answer my question," Loki replied wryly, and Aramis allowed himself a sly smile.

"Yes, Porthos and I match well; he is the brawler and I, the style."

Loki gave him an arch look over his shoulder and Aramis had to restrain his grin at what might be slight stirrings of jealousy in those affronted green eyes.

"How unfortunate for you to be demoted to the rank of brawler, then," Loki said haughtily as he faced forward again, his cloak flaring as he did so.

Aramis laughed low in his throat, and delighted at seeing a tiny smirk on Loki's lips before he realised that Aramis could see and wiped it clear.

"I don't know," he replied idly, "Brawling does look quite fun."

Another arch look.

"You have neither the strength nor the skill."

Aramis snorted at that deliberately provoking statement but kept his gaze innocently on the canopy above them. "Perhaps you could teach me, then."

He felt Loki shoot him another look, but it turned to mild confusion when he thought that Aramis was not being flirtatious. Aramis did so enjoy putting Loki on the back foot.

It was a fantastic game and he thought that he was becoming rather good at it, especially when Loki murmured with a small frown, "Perhaps."

Aramis returned his attention to the object of his fascination and said gleefully, "Wonderful."

Ah, there was that arch look again.

"Are we not meant to be searching for something?" Loki asked aloofly after he had sufficiently glared at Aramis' smile.

"No," he replied easily and leaned against a tree. "Just be on the lookout."

Loki looked him up and down and it made Aramis' breath catch just a little, it stopped completely when Loki said with a sardonic curl of his lips, "Because you're _so_ very prepared for an ambush."

Heated anticipation unfurled in his stomach and he let his hand trail absent-mindedly down his chest to his sword. "Is that a challenge, _mon ange?_"

Loki watched the movement raptly but then caught his amused expression and turned away, saying arrogantly, "I do not wish to engage in a one-sided duel."

"Definitely a challenge," Aramis remarked matter-of-factly, not bothering to hide his grin.

Loki rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to say something, probably a cutting denial that would make Aramis laugh, but then he turned at a noise that Aramis couldn't hear.

"It's okay," Aramis said with a shrug of his shoulders as he palmed his arquebus fondly, "I understand how it is to not feel _challenged._"

Loki's attention successfully regained, Aramis sighed at his beloved gun and pretended not to notice Loki's scowl as he replied, "I believe you said that I was very impressive."

"Yes, but what is _impressive _when compared to, well, mastery?"

To Aramis' delight, Loki's scoff was coupled with emerald eyes that were alight with amusement, as if he knew that Aramis was only teasing him.

It would seem that his angel was learning how to play.

"Forgive me for never having picked up an arquebus before." Aramis somehow managed to restrain an eager noise at hearing Loki's voice form the name of his favourite weapon, found it even harder when Loki smirked as he continued, "I'm sure that if I had practiced as often as you have, I could match you."

"Ah, _mon ange,_" he replied with exaggerated disappointment to his sigh. "It is not practice, it is skill, and _that _is inborn."

Loki raised an indifferent eyebrow that was belied by the glitter of entertainment in his eyes. "You were born with the knowledge of guns?"

"Yes, and I am _excellent _at handling them," he said with a sidelong glance and a smirk of his own as his caressed the barrel.

Loki straightened immediately, the precursor to his usual derision, but then he narrowed his eyes at Aramis and shook his head with what definitely sounded like a small laugh.

"Your ego is astounding."

Aramis almost groaned at how Loki had set him up for a great comeback. "That's not all I have that is astounding."

Loki's lips twitched, so on the verge of a genuine smile, and Aramis felt like he had finally convinced a giant cat to not attack him on sight.

"Aramis," Loki began, and Aramis was struck speechless at his own name from an angel's mouth, but then the humour suddenly disappeared from Loki's face as he frowned at something over his shoulder. "What is that?"

Aramis turned almost dazedly, desperate to hold onto the playful nature.

He realised too late, of course, that if Loki had never held an arquebus before, he didn't know what one looked like when it was aimed from the shadows.

There was brief pressure on his back, a growl came from behind him as he fell, a gunshot from in front, and then light that seemed to come from everywhere.

* * *

Loki splayed his fingers and sent the bullet hurtling back towards its master, noticing distractedly that even with his magic, he could not manage a shot as good as Aramis' earlier.

And he had done that practically blind.

When the shadowed figure's gurgled cry sounded loud enough to satisfy Loki, he curled his fingers and let the bullet go, ignoring the thud of dead weight as the body crashed into the grass.

The figure did not deserve any further attention, for only a coward attacked from the trees and aimed at their targets' spines.

Aramis would have been crippled, and Loki had already expended enough of his power on the foolish Midgardian that seemed a magnet for trouble. If it wasn't for Aramis' incessant heated looks, Loki could have paid more attention to the sounds of the forest.

Although, he _had_ allowed himself to be distracted by the low note of challenge in Aramis' voice, he couldn't deny that.

Loki had been certain that he had heard the sounds of footsteps, or at least of the birds quieting for a brief few moments, but then Aramis had stroked that insanely interesting gun and Loki had only just started to grasp how the reloading worked.

It was the arquebus that had attracted his attention, and nothing more.

He hastily checked Aramis over for injuries but was reassured by the look of complete confusion on the man's face as he finally looked up. Perhaps he would not have noticed how Loki had used his magic to rid them of their craven attacker.

He just needed to ensure that Aramis didn't see the bloody hole in the dead man's chest, for then he would see that Loki's 'shot' was not as true as his or, worse, know that Loki had panicked when he had seen the gun aimed at Aramis' back.

He had _panicked._

Aramis stood a little unsteadily but settled under Loki's palm and, amazingly, turned to him and asked, "Are you okay?"

Loki blinked in surprise. "Yes?"

Why had Aramis asked _him _if he were okay, surely he should be the one asking that?

And yet, he couldn't quite bring himself to ask.

Besides, with a soft pulse of his magic and the faintest flicker of Aramis' eyelashes, he knew that the Midgardian was fine. There was no need to check.

He didn't care, anyway.

Aramis looked down at the body that had slumped between the trees and focused on something that Loki could not see.

"_Mon Dieu_, that was the tail scout, they've gone past us." Aramis paled and turned to Loki with something like terrified concern darkening his brown eyes, and then he whispered, "Porthos."

Aramis ran, he darted like a deer through the trees and disappeared from sight, unable to see the sneer of complete contempt that had curled Loki's lips. Loki took a moment to stare at the man he had pitilessly killed to save Aramis from pain, and then he snarled as he exploded the corpse into flames.

When he whisked them away, he wished he could douse the sickening anger that had begun to rise in his chest, and then, as he finally followed Aramis, he resolutely told himself something important.

He didn't care, anyway.

As he approached their camp, he heard the sounds of swords and ruthlessly quashed the concern that tried to claim his heart. Instead, he focused on the voice in his head, the voice of his father, and remembered where he _belonged._

On the throne, on Asgard.

As the ruthless god that ruled without _sentiment._

It was that voice that kept him from leaping through the trees into the clearing, kept him lingering under the leafy canopy and merely surveying the fracas before him.

He couldn't help himself from searching for Aramis and saw him cutting a furious path towards a desperately defending Porthos.

Beyond them, too far away to help and surrounded by more attackers, were Athos and D'Artagnan fighting back-to-back, as Thor funnelled newcomers towards them and batted aside any who tried to sneak up on them.

His eyes locked on Aramis again, who had finally reached Porthos' side, the place where he had so desperately wanted to be.

The voice in his head and the anger in his chest suddenly joined to form one very compelling thought.

If he wanted, he could leave them behind.

It shocked him and he disgustedly examined the sense of injustice that screamed along his subconscious, but then he saw the tight smile that Porthos gave Aramis, and Loki turned away from the sight of it.

He took a step, ignoring the strange pain that lanced him, and then he heard a noise that stopped him in his tracks.

It was Aramis' cry of distress.

It sounded so much louder than his father's voice.

The rage still burned in his blood, but he reached for his pistol and turned back, immediately seeing where he had to fire to ensure that Aramis would live.

Aramis who was standing over a collapsed Porthos, a look of agony on his face that had been lit with sly amusement for _him _only minutes ago.

Loki felt the gun buck in his hand and took out a man who had raised his sword to Aramis', and then he flicked his fingers and tripped two others who followed with the raised roots on the forest floor.

Without taking his eyes off of Aramis, he called, "Thor!"

With a roar, Thor burst from a throng of men and achieved nothing less than three smashed skulls and proceeded to barrel to where Loki's finger pointed. Athos and d'Artagnan took advantage of Thor's attention-grabbing bellow and slipped to Aramis' side, the latter glancing fearfully at Porthos' prone form.

Loki swiftly circled through the trees and took great delight in driving his sword through the backs of men who had not thought to look behind them.

He calmed with each death, but something hot that burned like a mixture of sentiment and jealousy still fuelled his swings. Beyond the cooling corpses, Loki saw Aramis crouched over Porthos, the large man was clearly unconscious and considerably pale underneath the blood, but there was relief tied into the anxiety on Aramis' face.

There were still more breathing bodies in his way. Gold flashed, claret sprayed, and Loki sneered; these mortals were so very weak, so very _small _compared to him.

For he was a god, and he didn't care.

He was sure that he didn't.

* * *

**AN:** **Hello, I'd like three bags of angst, please? I'll take my change in screams of frustration, thanks. Please review, you wonderful readers, you! - K  
**

**^Mwuahahaha angst is beautiful. ANOTHER *smash* - L**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: If you look up a picture of 'jealousy', you'd see a picture of Loki's pout. The description would be as follows: 'State of extreme distaste achieved by stupid Songbirds.' Conversely, 'gallant' is where Aramis is pictured: 'Adorable lovesick idiot who can make the birds sing... Beware of pistol.' - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN  
**

For some reason, the sight of Aramis's hands pressed close to Porthos's chest made him wish some of their attackers still lived, just so he could run them through again. He found the frantic look on the handsome man's normally smiling face detestable.

It mattered little that the hands were currently holding closed a bleeding wound to Porthos's chest. Perhaps it was unreasonable, but he felt a certain vindictive pleasure in the mortal's predicament. Things had been going so well. Why did this silly human have to ruin it by being injured?

His glares might serve more purpose if the idiotic mortal hadn't passed out.

It wasn't until Aramis finally spoke that Loki realized perhaps things were worse than he had first assumed.

"Athos, we need to get somewhere safe _now_," Aramis shouted, and the edge of command in his voice jerked Loki out of his uncharitable thoughts. Aramis was not a man to order when he could persuade, and the desperation told him something was deeply wrong.

"There's an inn," Athos said shortly, and his face was white and creased in worried lines. Thor glanced at him and his own face paled as well. "How bad-?"

"We need to get there," Aramis cut him off, ignoring the hesitant question.

"Aramis-?" Athos began again, and Aramis's head snapped up, eyes narrowed fiercely.

"We must get him there now or he will die!" he shouted, desperation distorting his handsome features.

"Brother, do something," Thor muttered urgently from beside him, but Loki bristled at the tone of command in his voice and ignored him.

"Thor, can you carry him?" Aramis asked, distracting Thor from the inevitable reprimand.

Loki's brother nodded, lifting the wounded man carefully and allowing Aramis to manhandle him until he was putting pressure on the wound. Loki had never seen this authoritative, commanding side of Aramis before.

He rather liked it.

But perhaps those were thoughts for another time, out of this forest of corpses.

Thor swung Porthos up on his horse and clambered up behind him, looking to Aramis uncertainly. "Should I ride slowly?" he ventured. "I would not want to injure him further."

"There's no time!" Aramis snapped, wheeling his own horse about so sharply it danced on its hind legs. Loki noted the way the youngest human's face blanched at the sharp edge to Aramis's tone. There was a terror in his eyes that Loki did not understand.

Surely the wound was not so bad?

He had no chance to check as they galloped through the forest. The inn Athos had spoken of was only a few short miles away, and Loki did not push his beast as much as the others, arriving a few minutes behind to distance himself from the madness that seemed to accompany mortal injuries.

The inn's yard was mostly deserted. The only horse that had been properly tethered was Thor's own, probably because someone had tied it before he dismounted. The others were roaming the yard freely, but had not scattered despite the open gate.

Loki spared a moment's appreciation for their fine training.

He took it upon himself to tether them properly anyway, trying not to think too uncharitably of masters who failed to see to their animals. He also found a stable boy and ordered the lad to fetch their food and water.

As an afterthought, he flipped the grubby child a coin, though from the way his eyes widened at the sight of it, large gold coins with Asgardian marking were not common tips.

The main room of the inn was empty. There was none of the hustle he had expected to lead him to the proper room, so he was forced to let his magic uncurl until he felt Aramis's presence on the floor above. It burned white hot, like a miniature sun.

He failed to suppress all thoughts of the symbolism, growling at his own sentimentality.

The room was shockingly quiet. Athos and Thor were hovering in a corner while D'Artagnan stood beside the bed, leaping to obey Aramis's terse instructions.

Aramis himself was splattered with blood, a needle held in red hands going in and out of the last few centimeters of what must have been a gaping hole in Porthos's chest. Even as Loki watched, he tied off the last of the stark black thread, cutting the end neatly with his dagger. Only then did his hands tremble. Not once did he glance at Loki.

The loss of attention stung more than it should.

"How is he?" Athos asked, voice quiet. Thor had moved to stand beside Loki near the door. Loki wasn't sure if he was seeking comfort or simply the familiar.

Aramis blew out a heavy breath, one bloody hand rising towards his hair in what was likely a nervous gesture.

Loki was absurdly grateful when D'Artagnan's hand darted out before the offending limb could reach the wild curls, and was disgusted with himself for caring.

"He may yet live, provided the wound does not fester," Aramis said. D'Artagnan and Thor both broke into relieved smiles. Athos did not, but the lines of his face softened slightly.

Loki stared at them, these men who professed to be Aramis's brothers.

How was it they could not hear he was lying?

"I suggest you sort out accommodations for the night," Aramis said, still with that undertone Loki could not quite place. "I will stay here for now."

Athos nodded, signalling the others to leave the room. Loki himself was out the door and partway down the hallway when his sensitive hearing picked up the unexpected sound of Aramis calling Thor back in.

How odd.

Athos sent Loki into a room down the hall, and explained shortly he would be sharing with Thor before he and D'Artagnan disappeared into another. Loki stood in the center of the room, trying to sort through the disgusted emotions whirling through him.

He had seen the look on Aramis's face when they had realized the enemy had slipped past them, recalled the way he had said Porthos's name as he charged off.

Not that he cared, of course.

Not at all.

The squeak of the door tore him from his musings, and he turned to snap at Thor for distracting him, desperate to take out his frustrations on someone.

But it wasn't Thor.

It was Aramis.

Loki was so thrown by this unexpected development that for a moment he found himself lost for words. Aramis entered without invitation, closing the door behind him.

"Where is Thor?" Loki managed at last, cursing his own clumsy attempts at conversation and cursing Aramis for wrong-footing him so effectively.

"I left him with Porthos." Aramis's voice was rough, almost a croak. He stared at Loki in a way that was highly unsettling.

"Then why are you here?" Loki asked, recovering enough to add a sneer to the question.

"Porthos is dying." It was Loki staring at Aramis now, shocked by the blunt way the words had been said. Was this some kind of tasteless prank? Even Loki wouldn't bother with something like that.

"Nonsense," he said derisively. "You said he would probably be fine."

"I lied. He's dying. I can't save him." Aramis gaze burned into him, a drowning man's silent plea for rescue. Staring into his eyes was like looking into an abyss of pain and guilt.

"But you can."

Understanding swept through Loki, leaving him cold in its wake. Aramis wanted to use him to save his lover, past lover, whatever it was Porthos was to him.

"I suppose you asked Thor first?" Loki snarled, fury igniting within him.

Aramis's brow creased in confusion, but the lost look did not leave his eyes. "Why would I do that?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused. "I assumed he knew about your abilities. I did not want the others to learn of the extent of Porthos's injuries."

That mollified Loki slightly, but he still detested the thought of being used like some cheap fix in a tough situation. He had not obeyed Thor's presumptuous order. He would not bow to this mere mortal.

"Loki…" Aramis murmured, and his voice sounded so broken that Loki had to fight not to give in. He could hear Odin's voice in his ear, reminding him he was a prince of Asgard, he was above these foolish humans and their petty needs.

"Please, _mon ange."_ Aramis was begging now, and the whispered words silenced Odin's voice more effectively than Loki himself had ever managed.

Dully, he realized this was the first time anyone had ever _asked_ him to help, rather than ordered. He felt almost unclean, watching Aramis beg so disgracefully. He could not imagine ever debasing himself so. And yet, the depth of Aramis's affection amazed him, and though he hated to admit it, touched him.

He was going to regret this, he was sure, but he couldn't hold out in the face of such desperation. Furiously, hating himself, he relented.

"Very well," he hissed, shoving Aramis aside as he strode down the hall. He could hear the other man stumbling in his wake, exhaustion obviously catching up with him.

Thor spun around when Loki crashed into the room, the obvious relief on his face just one more log on the fire of Loki's rage. It seemed even the mighty Thor cared for Porthos. The mortals' weakness was clearly rubbing off.

Aramis was right, that much was immediately apparent. Porthos would be dead in minutes if Loki did not act quickly.

Well, he had always liked a challenge.

Thor at least had the good sense to leave the room. Aramis hovered far too close, his breath tickling Loki's neck as he bent over, splaying a hand on Porthos's chest and calling for his magic, savoring the delicious way it flowed through him. The room was suddenly bathed in faint green light.

It took a remarkable amount of restraint to keep from pouring so much power into the mortal that he exploded. So weak, these humans. He allowed just enough magic to heal the worst of the wound, hoping it would keep the others from questioning the miraculous healing.

At least Aramis had the foresight to lie. Porthos's survival would seem a validation of his skills, rather than Loki's.

It was good he had not thought of that until the healing was almost complete, or else he might never have bothered.

At last he removed his hand, allowing himself a slight smirk at the clever nature of his handiwork. Enough to save the miserable human, but not enough to raise suspicion. He half expected Aramis to spout his praises then and there.

It came as something of a shock, therefore, when Aramis shoved past him, fingers fumbling at Porthos's neck. He must have found the steady pulse, for he sagged suddenly, dropping to his knees beside the bed. His head fell forward to rest on the lumpy mattress, muttering under his breath too quickly for Loki to catch.

It sounded like a prayer.

Disgusted, Loki whirled around and stormed from the room. So he was used, once again, and he had allowed it. He could hear Odin's voice once more, berating him for his useless sentiment and foolish decisions.

He was furious with himself for caring, for allowing himself to be swayed by Aramis's desperation, and he was furious with Aramis for caring about Porthos so much that he would beg and force him to compromise his own principles.

It had to be love; that much was obvious. Aramis loved Porthos. Why else would a man _plead _for help, beg for a life to be saved, and of him, who had done nothing but rebuff his attentions since they had met?

Well, good for them. They could rot, for all he cared. He did not need Aramis's love to feel complete. He had survived all these millennia without his father's, after all. Odin would think him flawed for his actions today, and he would be right.

But still he could not prevent the ache that spread through his chest at the memory of how Aramis had pleaded for his help.

Perhaps he was flawed in both his father's and Aramis's eyes, for nobody would beg for _his_ life to be saved.

* * *

The rise and fall of Porthos's chest was like a lifeline, keeping the torrent of emotions from overwhelming him entirely. He could barely bring himself to think beyond that one simple fact. If he did, all the guilt and shame and fear crashed upon him with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.

This was all his fault. There was no doubt in his mind that he was to blame for this. It did not matter that no one would ever say it; in his heart, this would always be his fault, his poor judgement, his failure.

He had found the cracked ribs while sewing up the terrible wound in Porthos's chest, and knew instantly that they were older than the battle, were received during the match with Loki.

The discovery had made Aramis sick with fear, for a wrong move during battle could break them cleanly and send shards of bone deep into Porthos's lungs. They had needed immediate treatment.

Porthos hadn't said a word about them.

But that shouldn't have mattered. Aramis should have checked. Didn't Porthos always try to hide his own injuries? Aramis should have _known_.

It was killing him to know he had come so close to failing his duty.

It was _his_ job to check for injuries, _his_ friendship that normally kept him plastered to Porthos's side, but he had nearly lost one of the most important people in his world because he had been too busy trying to flirt with an angel whose power astounded him.

Looking back, Aramis could see now how badly he had let his friend down. He had neglected him, ignored him for a fresh infatuation, and Porthos had suffered the consequences.

Porthos had _needed_ him.

Part of his brain was trying to remind him he ought to go after Loki, fall to his knees before him and thank him for what he had done, but it was drowned out by the fear still clamoring in his head. He couldn't leave.

Not until he was sure.

Aramis didn't know how long he sat there, just watching Porthos breathing. He was so focused that he did not notice when Porthos's eyes opened, blinking at him with confusion that quickly turned to concern.

He didn't even notice the hand that lifted from the bed until it was nudging insistently at his face. Only then did he realize Porthos had been saying his name for at least thirty seconds and receiving no response.

No wonder he looked half-frantic with concern. Aramis supposed he probably looked worse than Porthos right now.

Not that it mattered at all when Porthos was alive, and awake, and well enough to be concerned. His angel had come through for him. Aramis knew he would never be able to repay Loki for this.

But Porthos was still trying to get his attention, and with difficulty Aramis focused on his face, feeling heavy fingers brushing gently through his hair as he at last met the concerned brown eyes.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong, who died?" Porthos asked, and the strength in his voice left a lump in Aramis's throat. So close, he had been so close to never hearing that again.

"Aramis?"

"You almost did," Aramis couldn't help but blurt out. He saw Porthos's eyes widen as understanding chased confusion from his features.

"But I didn't," he murmured, tangling a hand in Aramis's hair and pulling him closer. "Look, see, I'm fine."

Aramis fought the urge to laugh. _So close, so close._ Out loud, he only said, "You should have told me you were hurt."

"Well, in the middle of a battle there was hardly time for that," Porthos said, offering a half-smile, but Aramis shook his head.

"Before that. You've got three cracked ribs, Porthos. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, you were busy," Porthos said, wincing slightly as he shrugged. He said it as if it were something simple, something that did not matter very much.

Aramis felt as if a shard of ice had been driven into his heart. There it was; the proof that his own carelessness had nearly cost Porthos his life. Suddenly he couldn't breathe.

Porthos must not have noticed the air being sucked from the room, because he was still talking. "Besides, I don't think they were cracked after all. Must've just been bruised. I can't feel them now, anyway." He pressed a hand experimentally to his chest.

Hurriedly, Aramis reached across and ran probing fingers across Porthos's ribs. He was right; the cracked ones had healed. Loki had done far more than Aramis had realized.

"Perhaps I was mistaken," he muttered, and Porthos actually chuckled at that, oblivious to the nature of Aramis's disbelief.

"Even you make mistakes, my friend," he said, and his smile reminded Aramis that it was okay to breathe, because the world had not ended.

He needed to thank his angel for that.

"I must go," he said, trying to ignore the brief look of hurt that flashed across Porthos's face. "Some of the others sustained minor injuries. I should check on them now that you're awake."

The hurt look subsided to concern. "You didn't check the others yet?" Porthos asked indignantly. "Off with you!"

Aramis left the room to Porthos's one-armed shooing gestures and made his way quickly down the hallway. Porthos might be awake, but he did not like the idea of leaving him to his own devices for too long. He had a long record of complicating even simple injuries by trying to sneak out and find wine or food when he ought to be in bed.

He knocked on the door to Loki's room, waiting patiently this time until it was opened. By Thor.

"Aramis? How is Porthos?" Thor asked. He was clearly trying to keep his voice low, but it still echoed down the hallway.

"He does well," Aramis answered, too exhausted to say much more. "Where is Loki?"

Thor frowned. "I am not entirely sure," he confessed. "He did not return. He may be outside meditating. Shall I help you find him?"

"That won't be necessary," Aramis told him, mustering a tired smile. "Thank you."

He made his way out of the inn, stopping to look in on Athos and D'Artagnan as he went just to be sure they hadn't been hiding any injuries as well. Both were sleeping soundly. Aramis noted absently that D'Artagnan had at some point risen from his own bed and stolen the blanket from Athos's.

Outside in the courtyard, the moonlight was nearly blinding. He stood still in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust, before making his way over to the stables.

Loki was not there, but a door at the far end was slightly ajar. Aramis crossed to it and pushed it open gently to find his angel sitting silently in the back pasture, moonlight glinting off his pale skin.

It was such a beautiful scene that Aramis was almost unwilling to interrupt, but his gratitude had gone unexpressed for too long already.

Loki's eyes snapped open when Aramis had crossed half the distance between them. He rose to his feet with catlike grace, emerald eyes narrowing as Aramis neared. His hands and clothes were still stained with dirt and blood, his black hair mussed. He had never looked more like a fallen angel.

"What do you want?" he snarled, crossing his arms across his chest. It seemed to Aramis almost as if he were trying to protect himself, but that was ridiculous.

Aramis had planned out every word of this on the way out, but standing in that field, a soft breeze playing through Loki's silken hair, his handsome words deserted him.

"Thank you," was all he could manage, voice strangled with emotion that hit him anew.

Loki's forehead furrowed in confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but Aramis found his voice at last and went on. "I could not save him. Had he died, his death would have been on my hands. My dearest friend."

Here he trailed off again for a moment, struggling with words that did not want to come.

"You did what I could not. I will never, never be able to repay you for that. Anything you want of me, it is yours."

Loki was watching him with eyes that grew steadily wider as he spoke. Aramis hoped he could hear the sincerity and admiration in his voice.

He could think of nothing more to add. Aramis was rarely at a loss for words, but he did not know how to convey the depth of his emotion in such trite phrases.

He stepped closer, grateful that Loki did not back away, and reached out one hand to his jaw, a final murmured _thank you_ slipping from his tongue.

As he turned away, he saw Loki's gaze drift upwards to the stars, a broken look in his eyes but the faintest of smiles playing on his lips.

* * *

**AN: ****That last line absolutely killed me when I beta-ed this. Just capslock and screaming. The Songbird and the Soldier? Please review and scream with us. - K  
**

**^This now sounds like a really tragic romance movie. - L  
**


	15. Chapter 15

**AN:** **Aramis shares his love of nature and his fascination with emerald green, and Loki tries to understand it. - K  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

The ride back to Paris was infuriatingly loud and Loki had to grit his teeth not to snap at all of them. They were all jubilant over Porthos' miraculous recovery and Thor had happily clapped Loki on the shoulder at least four times already.

He couldn't stand that casual intimacy that everyone else seemed to indulge in, it was bad enough that he had to be exposed to their ridiculous excitement, but the bruise that would surely grow on his back had tempted him into summoning a rain cloud directly over the disgustingly bright little party.

"Loki, look," Aramis murmured from his side, his horse slowing to a walk as the others moved on, oblivious. Aramis' hand rested on his as he pointed with the other, and Loki followed the gesture to see a group of small brown animals in a nearby field.

"The deer are birthing at the moment, see that tiny ball in the grass?"

Loki watched attentively, and made a small noise of wonder when the ball unfurled and tried to stand on unsteady legs. It wobbled and fell onto its rump, eliciting a soft laugh from Aramis that Loki was amazed to realise was fond rather than mocking.

The tiny fawn struggled upwards again and, this time, stood strong and began to gambol about its parents who nudged it tenderly with their noses. When he looked back at Aramis in stunned pleasure, it was to see a delighted smile on his face that Loki couldn't help but return, his mind immediately backtracking to when Aramis had tenderly touched his jaw the night before.

Touched his jaw and said _thank you._

Aramis squeezed his wrist then and released him, clucking to his horse to urge it onwards as Loki was left, staring after him.

He wasn't quite sure what had happened, but he felt absurdly pleased that none of the others had shared that surreal moment with them. With one last lingering glance at the deer, which were now prancing through the long grass with ease, Loki trotted to catch up with Aramis.

The pair spent the journey in comfortable silence, just out of distance of the rambunctious group ahead of them.

Loki found it rather pleasant.

It was surprisingly normal to stable the horses and for them all retreat to Aramis' room – the cleanest – in the garrison, D'Artagnan and Porthos arguing over the best way to win a fight and Thor alternating between who he agreed with.

Loki had been quite content sharpening his sword under Aramis' rapt scrutiny, but then the mortal had disappeared 10 minutes ago and seemed to think that he had done it very surreptitiously judging by the sly smile on his face.

He looked up from the whetstone to see that Athos had appeared, saying that he needed them for something and that someone should look for Aramis.

He felt a small thrill of smug satisfaction when Porthos was too preoccupied with talking to Thor to realise what was going on, and Loki was already halfway out of the door by the time he asked Athos what he had just said.

There was a moment where Loki had thought that he heard Porthos chuckle knowingly, but he had no idea why that would be so, so he ignored it and focused on keeping an eye out for Aramis and his ridiculous hat.

Only one other person managed to attract Loki's attention, a man who seemed to be watching Loki until he looked carefully at him, and then the stranger disappeared into one of the labyrinth of alleys before he could get a proper look.

It was of no matter, the streets of Paris were intolerably busy, but the crowds of bustling people seemed to part before him as if instinctively aware that he would gut anyone who touched him.

Ghastly planet.

The same could not be said for Aramis, who he caught sight of talking very closely to a woman with dark hair. Loki halted to watch them, loath to interrupt a private conversation but mostly interested to see how Aramis reacted to people other than Musketeers.

She was quite pretty, for a mortal, and Loki grudgingly wondered whether Aramis thought so too.

It seemed that Aramis was excessively charming to everyone that crossed his path, and that made Loki a little irritated for some reason. Aramis was offering the woman money, but she pushed his hand away and scowled at him.

For a moment, he thought that Aramis had seen him as he swept a bow to the woman, but then he merely leaned in to whisper something in her ear and the woman sighed.

Astonishingly, she then pulled back and slapped Aramis across the cheek. Loki jerked instinctively, prepared to stride over and intervene, but then as Aramis cradled his jaw, the woman burst out laughing and shook her head in what looked like fond exasperation.

Was this some strange Midgardian custom?

Apparently so, because Aramis tipped his hat gracefully and was shooed away by the giggling woman. The parting of people worked against Loki now, because Aramis immediately locked onto him and strode over with such a confident smile that Loki had to try very hard to keep his raised eyebrow cold and distinctly unamused.

"Hello, _mon ange, _what brings you out into the sunshine?"

"Who was that woman, and why did she slap you?" he asked brusquely, noticing the way Aramis' smile took on a craft tilt. The woman's hand print was still emblazoned on Aramis' cheek and Loki swiftly brushed his fingers over the mark, channelling a tiny amount of magic until it disappeared.

It was a nothing gesture, completely meaningless, but Aramis beamed as if- as if- well, Loki had no idea, but it was entirely unwarranted. The mark was an offence and he hadn't liked seeing it there, that was all.

To distract Aramis, he asked again and added, "Why didn't she take your money?"

Aramis leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "That was D'Artagnan's lady love."

Loki raised his brow in surprise; the woman seemed far too fiery and commanding. "That little whelp?"

"Indeed, Constance is a seamstress and thanks to that 'little whelp', she is fee free."

"I suppose he had to be useful for something," he said dryly, pleased when Aramis chuckled.

"He is, as long as he doesn't upset her, she's quite terrifying when she's angry."

"Aren't all women?"

Aramis laughed and tilted his head in consideration. "Yes, good point. Of course, I happen to flourish under command."

Loki rolled his eyes and then caught sight of the sun's position in the sky. "Hurry up, Athos wanted us."

Aramis' eyes lidded slightly and Loki only realised that he had commanded when Aramis replied huskily, "Whatever you say, _mon ange_."

The lewd implication was so thick that Loki thought that he might choke on it, and the hot little look that Aramis tossed him as he strode past did nothing to help the flaring of heat in his gut.

"Stop that," he said with quiet forcefulness, alarmed by the strange gripping sensation in his stomach. Aramis smirked at him and Loki realised again what he had done.

Loki frowned, annoyed at himself and annoyed at Aramis for enjoying it. He took a deliberately large step and stood in Aramis' way, blocking him between the wall and the street.

He opened his mouth to chastise the arrogant mortal, but then something hot and hungry roared across Aramis' face and Loki found that he couldn't speak. Aramis' breathing changed, became deeper and throatier, and Loki realised _again._

Aramis _liked _it.

Loki was speechless; he didn't know how to react to that revelation. He had always been naturally authoritative, it came with being a god of royal blood, but he had never known of someone _enjoying_ being commanded. Was this the same reason that d'Artagnan liked the spitfire nature of Constance?

_Aramis_ liked it?

On a whim, a completely detached and not interested whim, he arched his eyebrow and murmured lowly, "Aramis."

Aramis' dark brown irises were immediately eclipsed by his pupils and a strange noise came from his tan throat.

It almost sounded like a groan.

Aramis liked it.

"Aramis?" A high-pitched voice came from down the street, and Loki took his time pulling away from a moment that would forever etch itself in his memory.

Aramis' gaze was locked on him, but then he blinked and sucked in a breath when the voice called his name again.

"Constance?" he called back, and Loki was fascinated to hear a broken note in his normally melodious voice.

The woman from before appeared and stopped short upon seeing Loki, her shrewd gaze sizing him up before turning to Aramis and saying, "Never mind, I know what colour you wanted now."

She wasn't at all cowed by his cool regard, just flashed him a smile that seemed very _knowing_ before walking away.

Loki rather liked her.

He realised that Aramis was watching him intently again, and with a lot to think over, said nonchalantly, "Athos wanted us."

He was interested to note that Aramis took a moment to catch up with him, and when he did, it was with his hair ruffled to the point that he had obviously driven his hands through it in some sort of frustration.

Loki liked it.

* * *

Loki was starting to learn that when Athos said that he needed them, it could be anything from a mission, to simply gathering in the tavern to discuss their next movements over gratuitous amounts of wine.

"When was the last time we were forced on leave?" Porthos asked with lazy amusement from his seat in the corner, flanked by a beaming Thor and D'Artagnan.

"I think it was when Athos had that concussion," Aramis teased from Loki's side, his thigh brushing against Loki's whenever he shifted position.

Aramis had been paying particular attention to him tonight, darting around the table to fall into the seat next to his and snickering whenever Loki said something particularly cutting.

It was all being relegated to a place in his mind that he was resolutely not thinking about, along with the look on Aramis' face when he had essentially pinned him against the wall.

Loki took a steadying breath and focused on the conversation around him.

"If I remember correctly, I received that concussion because you two were busy showing D'Artagnan how to disable someone," Athos replied dryly, and when Thor frowned in confusion, added with a world-weary sigh, "I was that someone."

"Well, _I _couldn't do it, I had to be on hand for the medical attention," Aramis remarked with a lofty smirk. "And Porthos' skull is too thick."

Porthos nodded sombrely. "It's a blessing and a curse."

"I was laid up in bed for three days, alternating between cursing them and being sick."

Loki snorted in amusement and asked, "Why not practice on someone else, why risk your health?"

"Why," Porthos asked with a dark grin, "You offering? 'Cause I wouldn't mind knocking you out."

Thor frowned at Loki, taking Porthos' corner. "It was honourable of Athos to offer his services."

Porthos' expression was entirely too smug for Loki's liking, and his body turned far too close to Thor's than decent company should allow – and Loki was completely ignoring Aramis' shoulder against his.

Seizing an opportunity for mischief, he recalled Aramis saying that Porthos had some sort of – obviously unrequited – attachment to his brother, and said idly, "Yes, well, you've always been on the _straight _and narrow, haven't you, Thor?"

Porthos stiffened even as the hidden statement went straight over Thor's head, that Thor had never entertained the thought of a man being anything other than a comrade. Loki could clearly remember the look of utter confusion on his brother's face when he had let slip how attractive one of the male guards was.

What had only been conjecture of his affection was confirmed by Porthos' response. If looks could speak, Porthos' astonished one would have said, '_What did you just say?' _and then angrily, _'Do you know, how the Hell do you know that I like your brother?'_

That last question was fantastically answered by Aramis' badly restrained laughter, his toned shoulders shaking enough that Porthos looked at him in surprise. Aramis bit his lip apologetically and murmured, "I am sorry, _mon ami, _it just slipped out."

Porthos' glare just made Loki smirk wider, and he decided that the large Musketeer needed some comeuppance, so Loki laid his arm possessively across the back of Aramis' chair and raised an eyebrow.

Porthos' cough of abject amazement was music to Loki's ears, but then the man narrowed his eyes at his shirt that had been exposed by his leaning into Aramis.

"That's new," he remarked damningly, mocking amusement sparking in his eyes.

Loki felt heat tingle in his cheeks as he pretended not to enjoy the feel of silky smooth fabric against his skin. The green shirt had been thrust into his arms when Aramis appeared with a bundle of clothes from Constance, saying distractedly, "This doesn't fit me."

It had fit Loki perfectly.

He felt Athos' perceptive gaze on him, and then heard a quiet, "It suits you."

Before Loki could go through with the thought of having the ground rip open to devour them all, Athos spared himself by continuing, "Actually, I meant to say, do you have a particular attachment to your sword's sheath?"

Loki, grateful for the change of subject, let his hand drift to his hilt. "Yes, I forged it myself, why?"

Athos shrugged, leaning back into his chair with a swig of his wine. "For all its beauty, I worry that it would gain more attention than it should. Have you considered a plainer one?"

Normally, Loki would have dismissed anything seen as changing him, but he respected Athos' opinion. The mortal's skill still managed to raise his ire, but Loki couldn't deny that it showed how masterful he truly was.

Loki supposed that his sheath _was_ a little ostentatious compared to the Musketeers' simple ones, the plain leather meaning that they proved themselves with expertise rather than flashiness.

"I.. will look into it," he said finally, and deliberately didn't look at Thor's utter amazement at his easy compliance.

It occurred to Loki that he had been given things lately and had not repaid any of them. Athos would prove to be a wealth of study in swordplay, and Aramis had outfitted him with a pistol and a shirt now. Yes, the latter could be seen as paid in regards to his healing of Porthos.

Still, he was a prince, and princes did not get into _debt._

He stood abruptly, casting a glance over the table of emptying bottles and seeing Aramis drain the last of his wine.

Loki had partaken of their generosity quite a lot, actually, and alcohol, it seemed, was the perfect way to repay them. Valhalla knew they drank enough of it.

He had watched the others enough to know how this transaction should work, but as he stepped towards the bar and reached into his pocket for coin, he realised that his Asgardian currency would not buy anything here except for a few strange looks.

Still, it was gold, perhaps if he just…

With a pulse of magic, he heated some of the coins until they melted into a lump of gold and then flourished it to the innkeep. "How much can I procure for this?"

The mortal was not very good at hiding his emotions, his eyes widened almost larger than his face allowed, and then he murmured eagerly, "Open bar for you, monsieur."

"Excellent," Loki replied succinctly, covering his pleased smile at his own ingenuity, "Six bottles of wine, then."

He felt rather than saw Aramis approach, his warm weight nudging his arm as he leaned on the wooden counter, pushing back his still messy hair to chide quietly, "I hope you aren't thieving on my account."

Loki hid his amusement and replied archly, "I have no need for thievery; besides, I knew that you would not approve if I did so."

He had actually considered producing the bottles with his magic, or even using his sleight-of-hand tricks to delve into somebody else's pockets, but it would not have been repaying his debts as he should do.

It had nothing to do with Aramis and his gallant nature that was so similar and yet so different to Thor's.

Aramis blinked in surprise, his mouth opening and closing before forming a small, delighted smile. He took three of the bottles that had appeared courtesy of the beaming innkeep and murmured, "That makes this evermore sweeter. Thank you, Loki."

Loki did not deign that soft gratitude with a response, but he did incline his head when their table erupted in raucous appreciation at his return, laden down with wine.

They were surprisingly rowdy for a regiment of soldiers, but he knew first-hand that their abilities belied that.

Porthos was still eyeing him warily, so Loki, well aware that he was under Aramis' watchful gaze, graciously offered the large Musketeer a bottle and smirked at the grunted 'thank you'.

This day was turning out marvellously.

Eventually, after they had practically drank the tavern dry and Loki had had his praises sung in drunker and drunker tones, d'Artagnan collapsed into giggles and they called it a night.

As they picked the youth up, Aramis leaned into Athos and asked him something too quiet for Loki to hear, but Athos' response confused him. It was a roll of the eyes but with a smile and a quiet, "Very well."

Loki busied himself with avoiding Thor's lumbering around the table, but locked onto Aramis when he reappeared at his side.

"_Mon ange, _I've just realised that I need to commission the tanner for a new jacket. Go on without me, I'll ferry Athos home."

Loki glanced at him, took in his tired smile and the way Athos tipped yet another bottle back as he held a stumbling d'Artagnan up, and said simply, "Very well."

Aramis' smile grew and turned a little heated as he murmured, "Sweet dreams."

If Loki had been mildly perturbed that Aramis was not returning to his rooms, he was bizarrely relieved by that parting look. At least this meant that Loki did not have to give up his bed tonight, or wrestle with his conscience when he wouldn't anyway.

Sleep came easily with alcohol running hot in his veins. When he awoke to sunshine on his face and a faint thumping in his temples, it was with the distinct knowledge that Aramis was not there and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Had Aramis returned whilst he slept and been forced to retire on the chair again, leaving before he had awoken? Loki glared at the offending piece of furniture, but it turned into a frown when he noticed a box placed upon it that had definitely not been there the night before.

If he hadn't been so curious, he would have cursed himself for lowering his guard enough not to stir at midnight movements. Of course, if it had been Aramis, that partly explained his lack of alarm.

Inquisitively reading the slip of paper that rested atop, he reluctantly smirked at the words written in neat, sloping handwriting.

'_Mon ange, _Athos demanded it.'

It was for him then, this mysterious box. When he opened it, it was with an unfamiliar feeling cresting in his chest, it felt a little like being at the precipice of a cliff – nauseous, pleased, confused.

Eager.

Inside, nestled on soft cloth, was a black leather sheath that was picked out in faint swirling patterns and adorned with small gold accoutrements. The decoration almost seemed like a meld between the guard that Aramis wore on his shoulder and Loki's original sheath; the latter he immediately detached from his belt and threw carelessly onto the bed.

Picking the new one up almost reverently, Loki ran his fingers along it, marvelling at the detail and the sturdy but lightweight feel. It fitted his sword perfectly, the golden hilt flashing above the plain leather.

The feeling in his chest intensified until he felt almost short of breath, and Loki reached for the note once more.

The reason was a good one, just as the one for the 'ill-fitting' shirt was, and the 'usefulness' of another pistol-wielder; they all made sense, and yet Loki knew that they were purely for his benefit. Thought up so that he didn't have to deal with the strange sentimentality that came with these gifts.

For that is what they were; gifts didn't require repaying, did not invoke _debts._

Loki had never received gifts before.

He liked them.

* * *

**AN: I'm drowning in Lokimis fluff, it's frost and honey coloured. The gold of honey. Just like Loki's light. - K  
**

**^Also, if anyone would like to see the incident of Athos and the concussion, I'd be happy to write it. Just shout out in the comments! - L  
**

**Yes, I would, (everyone chant with me) WRITE, WRITE, WRITE! - K  
**

**^I was asking the _readers._ Obviously you would want it! But it's up to them if it ever sees the light of day ;) - L  
**


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Loki preens like a peacock, Aramis ponders the sticky benefits of pastries, Athos shamelessly encourages a prank, and d'Artagnan uses his puppy dog charms on a peacock. - K.**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN  
**

The early morning summons from Treville was almost enough to make Aramis regret his late night dash through Paris in search of the perfect sheath for Loki.

Almost.

And even the small amount of annoyance he felt gave way when the angel in question strolled down from his rooms, new sheath proudly displayed in his hip, dark leather gleaming against the richness of the green shirt. It was just a shade lighter than the green cloak he had fastened about his shoulders, and the gold ties complimented the trim on the sheath.

He seemed torn between pleased embarrassment and strutting pride.

Aramis beamed.

The crashing arrival of a bleary eyed Thor swathed in a blinding red cloak forestalled any chance to ask if Loki had liked the gift, but from the way his hand kept idly tracing the etched leather, Aramis could guess the answer. He swelled with satisfaction, content to bask in the pleased expression he had brought to his angel's face.

A friendly prod to the ribs snapped him out of his reverie just as Treville arrived. Aramis shot Porthos a grateful look and reluctantly turned his attention from Loki.

Treville's briefing failed to hold his attention for long, however, and it was only when Porthos nudged him toward the archway out of the garrison that Aramis realized he hadn't listened to a word Treville had said and had no idea what they were going to do.

Perhaps he was a bit more tired than he'd realized, but he still couldn't bring himself to regret the midnight trip to his favorite tanner, or the outrageous bribe it had taken to convince the man that his order should be rushed and completed that night. The sun had been rising by the time he'd slipped the box into the bedroom and returned home to change.

He caught sight of Loki's fingers trailing down the sheath again and smiled. Definitely worth it.

He was not the only one to notice the new piece.

"Brother, you found yourself a new sheath!" Thor exclaimed, excitement written across his face. Aramis smirked as Loki neatly sidestepped Thor's outstretched hand, avoiding his grasp with the ease of long practice.

"Let me see it, Loki," Thor said petulantly. The others had paused to watch the antics. Suddenly D'Artagnan darted forward, weaving past Thor to catch a glimpse of the object of his attention.

"That's nice!" he said, surprised. Loki raised an eyebrow. "I mean, it's just nicer than I would've expected on such short notice," he babbled, backtracking quickly in the face of Loki's disdain. Thor stepped slightly in front of him, blocking him from Loki's annoyed glare.

Aramis smiled when Porthos shoved past him, eager to add an insult to the mix. To his pleasure, the look that crossed his friend's face told him he could find no fault with the piece itself.

"Looks good, better than that golden torch you had," Porthos conceded grudgingly, peering closely at the elaborate etching. Stepping back, he rolled his eyes and shot Aramis a rueful smile, immediately guessing where it had come from. Aramis winked.

Thor and D'Artagnan had fallen into a chorus of demands and compliments, wanting to know where it had come from, but Aramis caught Loki's gaze flashing towards Athos as he angled his body in such a way that the oldest Musketeer had a clear view of the sheath.

Aramis blinked. Was his proud angel looking for Athos's approval? But there- Athos had nodded, a small, contained motion, but Loki's face broke into a small, pleased smile, and Aramis knew, somehow, that this was the equivalent of Porthos beaming with pride.

D'Artagnan had changed tactics and was rather sullenly inquiring why everyone had nicer things than he did. Apparently, this was the signal for Athos to step in.

"Gentlemen, may I remind you we are on a mission," he said dryly, neatly moving between Loki and his new admirers. "There will be plenty of time to discuss fashion later. I'm sure that's what you and Constance were doing all last night."

Porthos snorted as D'Artagnan blushed faintly but followed Athos down the street. Aramis watched Loki, who looked pleased from all the attention now that no one could see him.

Aramis strolled past him to walk next to Thor, examining Loki from the corner of his eye as he went. His angel was watching him with an intent expression on his face. As he passed, he thought he saw Loki open his mouth as if to speak, but he said nothing.

"We need to head toward the palace," Athos said as they maneuvered down the crowded thoroughfare. "We're to meet the informant before the ninth bell."

"But we haven't eaten yet!" Aramis didn't even have a chance to ask what it was exactly they were doing before D'Artagnan's voice cut him off indignantly as he dodged a cart laden with crates of produce.

"Surely you don't expect us to fight on empty stomachs?" Porthos asked, eyes gleaming wickedly.

Athos sighed in a long-suffering way, raising a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. "Aramis," he ground out good-naturedly. "Go and find us some breakfast. Quickly. We will wait before the courthouse." He tossed a purse to Aramis and headed off, the others trailing in his wake. Porthos and D'Artagnan shouted requests over their shoulders as they hurried after him.

Aramis saw Loki hesitate before following, glancing over at him again, hand hovering over the sheath, but after a moment he turned and strode after Athos, the faintest blush marking his marble cheeks.

Interesting.

Aramis picked his way easily through the crowd, stifling a yawn as he stepped neatly around squealing children that darted underfoot. He made his way to Athos's favorite bakery, just a street over. He had a feeling Athos had waited to send him for food until they were in the vicinity.

Aramis grinned at the pile of coins in the purse as he pushed his way to the counter. There were perks to being a Comte, even one in self-imposed exile.

"Aramis!" the _boulangère _cried when she saw him, waving a baguette over the crowd. "What can I get for you?" she purred, batting her eyelashes at him as her gaze traced the angle of the blue tie across his chest. Not so long ago, he would have flirted right back, but now things were different.

He had a fallen angel to pursue now.

"Just the usual, Madeleine," he replied, flashing a charming smile. It didn't hurt to be courteous. He noticed the shop boy sliding a fresh pastry into the display case and paused, considering.

It was richer fare than he himself preferred, decadent white pastry filled with raspberry preserves and drizzled with chocolate. It was expensive and decadent, food for an angel. He grinned.

"And Madeleine, I'll take that as well," he called, pointing at the still steaming pastry. She smiled her acknowledgement and bundled it up with the rest. There was a suggestion in her voice as she bid him farewell, but he ignored it.

Aramis had far more in his life now than a pleasant diversion with a girl from a shop.

He made his way down the busy street, calling greetings to shopkeepers and passersby. Aramis was careful of the package under his arm, worried about the safety of the precious pastry. It took only a few minutes to reach the looming courthouse.

He found his companions quickly, gathered in the shadow of the immense building, the red and green cloaks standing out in striking contrast to the blue of the Musketeers'.

It was D'Artagnan who spotted him first, hunger driving his sharp young eyesight. Porthos had to hold him back to prevent the lad from barreling over and yanking the bundle from Aramis's hands. Sometimes Aramis wondered if they'd be better served lobbing fresh pastries at their enemies before letting D'Artagnan loose.

He found a convenient bench and carefully unrolled the package, dishing out baguettes, croissants, and _pain aux raisins_ to his hungry companions. He reserved a _beignet_ for himself and kept the rich pastry out of sight until Thor, Porthos, and D'Artagnan had abandoned the mad rush for food and Athos and Loki were no longer at risk of being trampled if they approached.

Athos produced two bottles of wine from seemingly nowhere, offering one to Aramis before wandering over to share with the others.

Loki was just reaching for a croissant covered in powdered sugar when Aramis held a hand out to stop him. "Just a moment, _mon ange_," he said casually, failing to keep the grin from his face. "I thought you might like this." He produced the thick pastry with a flourish. It still radiated heat from within its wrapping.

Loki gazed at it, surprise written in his emerald eyes. He reached out almost tentatively and took the pastry, his fingers brushing Aramis's. He raised the pastry and took a small bite. Aramis had trouble not staring at the small smear of chocolate that lingered on his angel's lips.

Loki swallowed, a strange expression crossing his face. "Do you not like it?" Aramis asked, suddenly anxious.

Green eyes darted up to meet his. "It's… lovely," Loki said after a moment, and there was unexpected warmth in his gaze. He took a deep breath, glancing away. "Thank you, Aramis."

Aramis sensed the gratitude was not merely for the pastry, but he smiled and bowed gallantly, hoping to lighten the moment so his dark angel would not feel uncomfortable. He flashed a smile and moved to join the rest of the group where they'd gathered, Loki falling into step beside him after a moment.

Aramis tried very hard not to wonder what Loki would taste like when he'd finished the pastry.

He nearly succeeded.

* * *

Loki wiped fastidiously at the chocolate lingering on his fingertips, still thrown by the preponderance of gifts he'd received in the last few hours. How had Aramis known which pastry he would most enjoy? The mortal's skills of observation were far better than he'd thought.

The man in question was currently coated in powdered sugar from his own breakfast, and Loki fought the urge to make a joke about the mess. Aramis certainly didn't need any encouragement from him.

Still, he bristled with barely contained fury when Porthos reached over and playfully swiped his hand across Aramis's well-kept beard, dislodging a cloud of sugar. Loki had no reason whatsoever to want to send a painful spark dancing across the mortal's fingers for the casual motion.

None whatsoever.

"We need to move on," Athos said abruptly, looking pointedly at D'Artagnan, who was attempting to sneak up behind Porthos with an extra sugar-covered pastry poised guiltily over his head. The lad whipped it behind his back, feigning innocence, as the larger man spun around and glared suspiciously.

And oh, now Loki just couldn't resist sending a subtle wave of magic just as D'Artagnan turned away, tripping him slightly so the _beignet_ sailed from his grasp and into the back of Porthos's head, splattering white sugar amid his curly hair.

Porthos rose, looking thunderous, as Aramis all but collapsed with laughter. Even Athos cracked a smile as D'Artagnan backed away, hands raised defensively and a look of apprehension on his face.

"I didn't mean to! I swear!" he protested, darting behind Thor for protection. Thor subtly stepped forward, blocking him from Porthos's livid glare.

"Porthos," Athos called. Loki expected a reprimand. Instead, Athos's eyes flicked to a half-eaten pastry lying on the bench, still liberally coated in sugar.

"Hold him," Porthos crowed delightedly, and to Loki's surprise, Thor immediately twisted, a broad grin on his face, and trapped the young Musketeer in a headlock. D'Artagnan yelped but failed to escape as Porthos ground the sugar into his hair and smeared it gleefully across his face.

Thor released the lad and he staggered back, glaring at the others with mock bitterness. "Bastards," he muttered.

"What was that?" Athos asked, his voice neutral, but Loki's eye was caught by the handful of pastry he tossed casually up and down.

D'Artagnan must have seen it too, for he eyed Athos warily and said, "Nothing."

Aramis was still laughing as he at last gained his feet, and his amusement brought a smile to Loki's face. Never before had he experienced such easy camaraderie, and he couldn't deny that he enjoyed it.

Porthos shook his head like a dog, splattering sugar across Athos and Thor. The latter laughed exuberantly, but the former sent him an icy glare. Loki noticed D'Artagnan groping for something to clean his face with, and before he could think better of it, he tossed him his own handkerchief.

"At least someone likes me," D'Artagnan said piteously, but his small smile of thanks drew an answering one from Loki.

He was going soft.

It didn't bother him as much as it should.

"We really must go," Athos said, shooting a wry grin at the others, who had all been subtly searching for more ammunition. With good natured groans, they gave up the search, dusting sugar from their clothes and gathering up the empty packages before turning to follow their leader down the street.

Aramis passed just behind Loki as he went, and Loki caught his soft whisper. "Nice trick."

For some reason, the acknowledgement sent a thrill of warmth through his stomach, but he quickly dismissed it as sentiment and quashed the pleasant sensation.

It was odd, watching how quickly his companions could shift from playful, childish behavior back to professionals. Athos led the way through the streets with practiced ease, Porthos following closely behind him to part the crowd. The others stepped briskly in their wake, leaving spots for Thor and Loki himself. Even his father's warriors lacked such discipline.

"So, where is it exactly we are going?" Aramis asked from his left, and Loki glanced over, a scathing remark already on his lips about paying attention during briefing, but paused, considering.

Aramis looked exhausted. A slight tendril of guilt gripped his stomach and his fingers found the sheath at his side once more, stroking down the supple length. Had Aramis lost sleep to commission it for him? The thought brought that strange feeling to his chest again.

Someone had taken time out of their night for _him_.

He couldn't shake off the vague sense of shame at his own inadequate thank you. His father would tell him that gratitude to a mortal was pointless; that as a prince of Asgard, he would be entitled to their tribute. But it hadn't felt pointless earlier, when he had struggled to find the words to express his appreciation to Aramis.

He was drawn from his self-recriminations as Athos replied, his voice slightly louder than Loki deemed wise in the crowded streets where anyone could hear. He doubted it was arrogance, but rather a misplaced sense of trust in the streets they knew so well. A few people glanced in their direction, but he couldn't see anyone listening too closely.

"Treville has had word of an informant who may have news of Soulier for us."

A frown marred Aramis's handsome face at the mention of the man who had almost killed him. Loki fought back the bubble of rage that rose in his own throat. "I thought you killed him."

"I did," Athos replied calmly, stepping back to allow Porthos to forge through a crowd ahead of them. "But his network was not destroyed, and it seems there may still be some acting in his name. We're to meet the informant before the ninth bell in an alley behind a tavern on the Rue Buteur." He glanced up, eyeing the position of the sun. "And we're already late."

He increased the pace, and Loki noted that his brother stepped forward to stand beside Porthos, adding his bulk to aid in parting the crowd.

Despite their lateness, Athos did not seem inclined to hurry. "Should we not walk a little faster?" Loki asked, trying not to sound presumptuous. He really had no wish to question the mortal's leadership, a realization that shocked him.

"For this man to be informing on Soulier, he must have worked for Soulier," Athos told him amicably. "There's no harm in making him wait."

Loki nodded, pleased with the explanation and the fact that he'd actually received an explanation. Had he questioned Odin like that, he would probably have been shouted at. And Athos was right, after all: the criminal could stand to cool his heels for a while.

Loki did not know the streets, but he sensed they were drawing near to their destination a few minutes later by the subtle shift in his companions. Banter dropped away, hands drifted to weapons, and their pace increased slightly. Even D'Artagnan appeared more alert. Thor, too, read the signs and tensed in readiness for the confrontation to come.

Loki noted the edge to Porthos's stride, the simmering anger. For once, he found he could relate to the large Musketeer. To his disgrace, he wasn't sure of his own self-control if confronted by one of the men who might have been involved in Aramis's near-fatal wounding.

Suddenly Athos stopped, frowning. "He should be here," he murmured, and there was warning layered in his tone. He might as well have shouted _something is wrong_.

The others immediately began to fan out, eyes searching the crowded street as they pushed towards the alley where the informant was meant to be.

"There," Loki hissed, gesturing discreetly towards a side alley, where the dark outline of a pair of legs could be seen near the ground. He crouched over the body as the others gathered quickly, instinctively forming a wall between the passersby and the corpse with the gaping wound in its throat.

Loki immediately whipped his head around, searching the crowd passing by the entrance to the alley. Most of the slowly gathering crowd met his eyes curiously, but two ducked out of sight, avoiding his gaze. He glanced back at the body, his lip curling in disgust.

"Sloppy," he murmured, and looked up in surprise when Aramis came to his side.

"What do you see, _mon ange?_"

It pleased him that Aramis automatically took stock in what he had to say, and it only increased when Athos raised an eyebrow at him, an invitation to explain.

Because his opinion was _valued_ here, whereas before, only his mother and Thor had listened to him, and the latter only because Loki was the one that managed to get them out of the trouble the oaf had gotten them into.

"This is recent," Loki said softly, glancing at Athos, who shot him a shrewd look. "And we are being watched."

"Go on," he said, and Loki felt pride rise softly within him: his father had never asked him to use his truly exceptional skills of observation for anything.

"Look at the way the blood has splattered," he said, careful to keep his voice low. "It's still wet, and the fact that there's such a large area hit with blood says the wound was inflicted hurriedly. They weren't worried about the spray. They were worried about time." He gestured around. "They dragged the body back even as they cut his throat, see? There's some blood out in the alley, but most is here."

"Why would they rush?" Porthos asked. Loki glanced sharply at him, expecting belligerence, but saw only professional curiosity on his face. Apparently his ire was reserved for downtime, not missions.

"My guess is they knew we were coming," Loki said softly, and he heard Athos sigh heavily. "There were two men by the entrance. They were waiting for us to find the corpse."

"I should not have discussed the mission where a watcher could hear," Athos said, the self-reproach evident in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Athos, I should have paid closer attention during the briefing," Aramis began, but Athos cut him off.

"It's not your fault, Aramis. I chose to tell you. I should not have been so quick to assume we were not being observed." Loki raised his eyebrows at the immediate assumption of blame and felt his respect for the mortal inch higher.

"Well," Porthos broke in, sounding practical. "Not much we can do now but search him for anything useful."

"Yes, you're right," Athos said decisively. "Aramis, Loki, watch the street. We're far too visible here. I'll take Thor and see if there's anything further down the alley that might give us a clue to our mysterious assassin's identity. Porthos and D'Artagnan can search the body."

"Your skills of observation are excellent, _mon ange_," Aramis said quietly as they took up positions at the entrance of the alley, silently discouraging the gathered crowd.

Loki considered making a derisive comment, but decided to accept the praise graciously. "I have always been perceptive."

He felt Aramis's eyes on him, searching, but he did not turn to meet them even as D'Artagnan and Porthos arrived at their shoulders.

"We dragged the body further into the alley," Porthos said quietly, and Loki realized he was looking to Aramis for leadership in Athos's absence.

"Good. We'll need to send some men to fetch it, but for now we'd best report to Treville. Athos will know to meet us there." The tone of command in his voice made Loki arch an eyebrow in surprise. For a man who enjoyed being ordered about, he rose to authority quite well.

They made their way back to the garrison, but Athos and Thor had yet to return. "I'll deliver the report to Treville," Aramis said heavily. "It was my inattention that led to our assassin getting his information."

"I'll come with you," Porthos grunted. Loki glanced at him sharply, but he sensed only support in the offer and had to remind himself he didn't care either way. That didn't stop him from debating whether offering to accompany Aramis as well would be excessive.

He and D'Artagnan were alone in the yard, and Loki felt suddenly rather uncomfortable. He'd never really been exposed to anyone younger than himself, and he had no idea what he was meant to say to the boy. To forestall the awkwardness, he stalked away towards the training dummies, noting a target propped against a nearby wall with a perfect bull's-eye shot through it.

Aramis's handiwork, no doubt.

To his surprise, he heard hesitant footsteps behind him and turned to see D'Artagnan following with an expression simultaneously eager and apprehensive.

"Yes?" he asked, arching his eyebrow. He was careful not to snap at the lad even while wondering what on Midgard he wanted.

"I was- well, I was hoping…" D'Artagnan began, stumbling over his words. Loki's eyebrow rose higher. "I was hoping you might show me that move you used on Porthos when you fought," he blurted out.

Loki stared at him, nonplussed. D'Artagnan fidgeted nervously. "It's just, you're… small," he continued lamely. "And you took him down so easily. I thought, if you can do it, I could do it too…?"

The poor boy sounded like he was quaking in his boots the longer Loki gave no reply. He took pity on the lad.

"I'm a poor teacher," he warned.

"I've been told I'm a poor student," D'Artagnan shrugged. "I'd still like to learn."

No one had ever asked Loki for instruction before. On Asgard he was small, weak, and had to resort to magic to win his battles. He'd never considered that he might have picked up valuable skills in combat that others would seek to emulate. It was… gratifying.

"For starters, you need to distribute your weight differently," he began, reveling in the way D'Artagnan's eyes lit with excitement as he scrambled to copy him. Fighting back a pleased smile, Loki settled down to teach the pup how to stand.

* * *

**AN: Loki absolutely kills me in this chapter. He's just secretly a melange of fluff and sweetness, and yet he has no idea how ridiculously it's shining through. Join us in our loving despair and leave us a review, please! - K**

**^Maybe if he coated himself in powdered sugar people would understand he's really just a sweet soul. - L  
**

**He's a sweet somethin'... - K.**


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Aramis is fairly convinced that his world has taken a confusing turn, and Loki is convinced it's taken an amusing one. This first scene is colloquially known as: '_The Puppy and the Peacock_'. Enjoy! - K.**

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

"It was my fault, _mon capitaine,_" Aramis sighed, bowing his head. It was easy to take the blame with Porthos by his side, and it helped that Athos was nowhere to be seen – Athos had the most infuriating way of insisting that he was responsible. "Someone must have heard me asking for your orders."

Treville merely hummed in consideration, rifling through papers on his desk. "And why were you so tired this morning?"

Aramis threw Porthos a startled look, who grinned and seemed to say, '_what did you expect?_'

Their captain was very perceptive; he was like Athos in that way.

Athos, who flung the door open and aimed a very unimpressed look in Aramis' direction. "My apologies, Captain, I was held up looking for clues as to our informant's killer."

"Anything?"

"No, it was clear," Athos replied, and Aramis could already see him trying to shoulder his misplaced guilt. "I should have been more careful-"

"Yes, Aramis has already told me that he wasn't paying attention," Treville said idly, excusing Athos in one fell swoop. "Perhaps _you_ could explain why?"

Athos slid him a glance that said he would pay for that act of gallantry on the practice court, but then said, "Aramis was fetching commissions from the tanner last night to outfit the newcomers. We haven't had much time to replace our gear, as of late."

Aramis blinked at him. It was _almost _a reprieve; actually, it was almost Athos telling Treville that they needed another day of leave.

Something that might have been amusement crossed Treville's face, and then it was gone again as he said seriously, "Good, Thor and Loki should be outfitted properly, they've done good work."

Aramis felt his own smile form at that. It seemed forever ago that he had wanted Treville to realise Loki and Thor's potential, and apparently he had. He could even add to that. "Loki thinks that we're being watched."

Treville frowned. "By who?"

"That's just it, we don't know, and our informant's dead," Athos remarked.

Porthos exemplified the restlessness that had started in Aramis' chest and shifted from foot to foot. "This don't feel right."

"I agree, we've all been on edge since Marteaux Forest," Aramis said, and resolutely didn't mention how he and Porthos had almost died.

But were saved by the hand of an angel.

Athos crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "Is it possible that Soulier could have put plans in action before his death?"

"It wouldn't surprise me," Treville sighed, "Soulier was rich, he had his thumbs in many pies. The whole reason he fell out of favour was because he was trying to destabilise the Musketeers."

"I would have thought the Cardinal would be pleased at that," Aramis said lightly, trying to inspire some humour in the grim atmosphere.

Porthos gave him a wry grin. "Yeah, given Soulier a pat on the back."

"He did, until Soulier tried to abolish the Red Guard, too." The three of them glanced at each other in surprise before Treville continued, "Richelieu couldn't get him out of the palace fast enough after that."

"It says something about Soulier that even the Cardinal couldn't control him," Athos murmured, and the thought made Aramis a little sick. If Soulier had almost had the King eating out of his hand, what else could he have done out of the public light?

"Perhaps we should follow the informant's path? We might be able to-"

Treville cut him off with an impatient sigh. "The trail's cold, Aramis, and Soulier's dead. Take the quiet period as a blessing and get some rest."

He leaned against Porthos' side for strength and nodded tiredly. He _was _exhausted, but he didn't want to just sit around and wait – what if _he _was the next death that warmed the trail?

But then Porthos slung his arm around his shoulders and Aramis sagged into him, wrapped himself in the safe knowledge that, with these men, he had nothing to worry about.

Besides, there were two more to rely on now, and Aramis found himself very needy for one particularly chilly touch that always managed to perk him up.

As they clattered down the stairs, Thor was alone in the yard, a confused expression darkening his golden features. Porthos sped up his stride to reach him, the amount of concern in his dark eyes making Aramis laugh softly.

Athos raised an eyebrow at him and murmured, "As if you're any better."

Aramis, used to this type of sombre teasing from Athos, said airily, "I'll have you know, dear Athos, that I can be very inconspicuous."

A half-smile tilted Athos' lips. "Please tell that to the pistol, shirt, and sheath that have inexplicably come into Loki's possession."

"I was _outfitting the newcomers,_" Aramis quoted Athos' earlier comment, and deliberately turned away from Athos' laugh to focus on Thor and Porthos.

"Did you check the pond? Maybe he's drowning d'Artagnan," Porthos remarked cheerfully, withstanding Thor's sudden look of astonishment.

"You wish harm upon the boy?"

They had reached the pair now, and Athos said dryly, "It means he'll have an excuse to confront Loki."

Porthos affected a wounded expression that didn't fool either of them, but worked splendidly on Thor who looked at Athos almost reproachfully and said, "I'm sure Porthos has no such quarrel with my brother."

Aramis was forced to walk away before he burst into laughter and ruined Porthos' little game with the adorably oblivious Thor. It was amazing just how different two brothers could be, for Loki had the eyes of a hawk.

He looked about the empty yard and thought, _if I were an angel, where would I be?_

If he had learned anything about Loki, aside from how deliciously cutting he could be, it was that he sought out nature whenever he had a spare moment.

How d'Artagnan fit into that, Aramis wasn't quite sure, and for all of Thor's faith, Aramis was mildly concerned that Loki _was _trying to drown d'Artagnan. Or at least hoping to bury him in the small garden overlooked by Treville's office.

It was green there, peaceful – and Aramis fully expected to see d'Artagnan dangling from a tree, whilst Loki snarled at the base, like a big cat chasing its prey.

He stepped into the garden proper and had to freeze, not daring to make a sound.

Ahead of him, amidst the lush greenery and bright sunlight, stood Loki and d'Artagnan. Loki had his back to him, but Aramis could see that he had his arms crossed as he watched the boy go through a series of punches.

Loki shook his head and, Aramis saw from the shadows of the trees, d'Artagnan bestowed Loki with his best puppy dog eyes. This one was accompanied with a little duck of his head as he peered through his fringe.

Even _Athos _submitted to that one.

But Loki was made of sterner stuff – as Aramis' ego was testament to – and simply stared until d'Artagnan moved his foot the tiniest amount and looked at Loki again, youthful determination in his questioning gaze.

Apparently that miniscule change was enough, and Aramis thought that someone had hit him on the head, because he heard a quiet, "Good. Again," from Loki, that made d'Artagnan smile shyly.

It wasn't Porthos' delighted grin or Athos' pleased nod, but from Loki? Even that monosyllabic compliment was like a shower of praise.

It was absolutely flooring, this new side to his angel.

It was also insanely attractive.

Aramis heard Porthos' footsteps in enough time to hold up a hand for quiet, and then Porthos approached to peer over his shoulder and ask worriedly, "He's not _actually_ drowning him-? Oh."

"Oh?" Came Athos' murmur, and then the three of them simply stared at the startling scene.

"Is he-?"

"So it seems," Athos replied.

"D'Artagnan just gave him the look and Loki didn't even flinch," Aramis said quietly.

"No way."

"That is impossible."

Aramis couldn't help but smirk at Athos' firm denial, and confirmed incredulously, "I saw it happen."

"Loki's one mean son of a-"

"How did d'Artagnan respond?" Athos interrupted swiftly.

"He fixed his footing."

"What?! Just like that?" Porthos exclaimed.

"It took me three days to keep him from balancing on his heels," Athos remarked with dry bitterness.

"Three days and I had to sew him up every time he forgot."

Porthos grinned at Aramis' equally dry tone. "Doesn't forget now though, does he?"

"Exactly," Athos said with a small smile that disappeared when d'Artagnan completed a complicated set of movements that he had never managed before. "It seems we've been coddling him."

They laughed under their breath, very aware that they did nothing of the sort. D'Artagnan always gave as good as he got – and he picked up on their tricks alarmingly quickly.

Thor's loud voice boomed from beyond the garden and was met with three sighs. It seemed a crime to disrupt the tranquillity before them, and Thor had done just that.

Loki looked up with a small frown and then murmured something to d'Artagnan that had the boy nodding intently, evidently committing the information to memory. As Aramis expected, Loki strode off before d'Artagnan could make whatever grateful remark he had planned.

Before d'Artagnan's lip could quiver – and Aramis wouldn't put it past him to break out some serious tactics to try and thwart Loki – Aramis whistled him over to join them back in the yard.

They were battle ready, all of them, which was why Athos' repeated order was met with looks of irritation. "Treville says that we are to wait. With Soulier dead, there's nothing more we can do."

So soon after seeing the informant's death, all of their tempers were running high. Loki was the first to respond, frowning as he murmured, "Cut off the head and another will take its place, they will band under another easily enough."

It was almost prophetic, said with his quiet forcefulness, and it succeeded in making Aramis shiver for more than one reason.

"But Soulier was the brains, wasn't he?" D'Artagnan asked, siding with Athos. "Without him, they'll be useless."

Porthos grimaced and nodded at Loki, "I agree with him. We should crush 'em while we can."

Loki looked at Porthos in surprise, but gave him a terse nod back that made Aramis think that this entire day might just be some sleep-deprived dream, where Loki patiently mentored d'Artagnan and Porthos didn't try to pick fights.

Athos interceded with a restless sigh, "There's nothing we can do now, we have no leads."

For some reason, both Loki and Porthos looked at him, and Aramis could practically feel the waves of protection coming from Porthos, and some sort of intensity coming from Loki.

"I need a drink," Aramis said suddenly, and Athos hesitated before agreeing.

"A drink will do us all good, and," he continued quickly before Loki and Porthos could protest, "We can plan our next move."

That seemed to pacify them, and then Aramis found himself flanked by men that were definitely trying not to seem like human shields.

They did anyway, and Aramis found it hard not to smile warmly at them.

He trusted Treville, but he trusted his friends more, and he trusted the little squirming of unease in his stomach that told him something was wrong.

It intensified when he realised that Loki had stiffened and was having a silent conversation with Athos. Unexpectedly, the two of them peeled off from the group and stalked ahead with lethal swiftness.

They mirrored each other's movements, sliding deftly through the crowds as they both focused on something that Aramis couldn't see. At a nod from Athos, he and Loki moved in for the kill.

Their target, a skinny, but wiry looking man, noticed Athos and tried to jerk in the opposite direction. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Loki's deadly expression, and backed up into Athos' commanding grip and what was probably a knife against his spine.

Loki finally looked away from his prey and met Aramis' questioning expression with a shrug. "I said that we were being watched. Now we can question him."

The target gulped and strained against Athos' arm, going still when he saw that there were six of them now, and he had no chance of escape.

Porthos turned to him with a grin that was far too cheerful for what they were about to do, and yet it was exactly what Aramis needed. The unease in his stomach lessened a little, they would get their answers now.

Porthos clapped Aramis on the shoulder but said in a low, threatening voice, "Let's find somewhere cosy for a little chat, eh?"

Aramis put on his most charming smile, winked at a surprised Loki, and brandished his arquebus. "I even brought my tools."

The target started straining again.

* * *

The four Musketeers seemed to have a side to them that he hadn't expected.

Loki followed with avid interest as they dragged the pitiful excuse for a watcher down an alley and through a door that Athos opened with a complicated series of twists. As they passed through, Loki noticed a tiny flower stencilled unobtrusively into the wood.

It was an empty building, devoid of furniture but for a few spindly chairs and some lone branches of candles. Daylight spattered through the shuttered windows and lent a decidedly morbid air to the room.

It took Thor an amusingly long time to comprehend that their comrades planned a torture session.

When he did, it was with a full-body flinch; and when Loki threw out a hand to stop his brother from charging forward, it was to see d'Artagnan's hand already on Thor's shoulder.

He shared a look of agreement with the boy – Thor could not get involved.

Loki was far too intrigued to see whether these honourable men would truly carry out the gruesome act. He had thought that such methods would be too harsh for them, and he was reluctantly impressed that they would stop at nothing for information.

With he, Thor, and d'Artagnan on the side of the windows, shadowed amidst the shafts of light, Athos stood on the opposite side, leaning against the wall with a bored expression on his face.

And most surprising of all, tying the bindings to a wooden beam in the middle of the room, were Aramis and Porthos, both seemingly on the edge of laughing at something.

This struck Loki as very strange.

"What is your name?" Athos asked idly as Aramis stood at the target's back, yanking hard on one of the knots.

The man spat, and grunted when Porthos backhanded him. Thor twitched at Loki's side, but Loki was more interested to note that Aramis raised an amused eyebrow at Porthos, whose glare almost wavered as he tried to hide his smile.

Porthos raised his hand, making the man flinch as he said quickly, "Adnet."

Aramis tilted his head as if in acknowledgement that Porthos' technique had worked, and leaned down to Adnet's ear, who tried to shuffle away from the threat that he couldn't see.

"The pleasure's all ours, Adnet," Aramis said silkily, "Now tell us who sent you before we make this distinctly… unpleasant."

Porthos scowled very intently, but there was a twitch in his cheek which told Loki that the dark man was trying not to grin, as if Aramis was amusing him.

It _was _amusing, watching them in this grim scenario, but they were going about it all wrong.

Porthos held Aramis' gaze for long enough that Loki was abruptly rather empathetic with Thor's despairing confusion and was tempted to demand an explanation.

This was no normal torture session, and these weren't normal men.

They didn't _enjoy _things like this, and both he and Thor knew that – they had spent enough time with them, lately.

Apparently Adnet had thought this at the same time as he and Thor shared a dubious look. The man seemed to strengthen, strained against his bonds to jeer, "My boss killed one of you."

Aramis' gaze jumped to Loki's and then to Porthos, because both of them had stiffened in anger at that snide comment. Porthos raised his hand again, but there was no lingering amusement this time, and Aramis stepped in front of Adnet to say, "You're looking at him."

Adnet blinked in confusion, but somehow managed to look down his nose at Aramis in such a way that Loki wanted to break it.

"You're Musketeers," Adnet spat derisively, "You won't kill me, you can't."

Porthos breathed easier with Aramis by his side and they shared a shrug that agreed with Adnet. Loki bristled, furious, were they just going to let that wastrel insult them? His lip curled with contempt. If they wouldn't bloody him, Loki would, _gladly._

He had taken a step forward before he had even thought about it, and then Porthos jerked his head at him and asked Adnet, "What about him?"

Adnet looked past Aramis and whatever he saw in Loki's eyes made him pale.

Loki knew somewhere in his rage that Porthos knew him a little too well for comfort, but he obliged by falling into his arrogance. He prowled forwards, trusting d'Artagnan to keep Thor back, and sneered at the scum who had worked for Soulier.

"You," he said lowly, and brought a tiny spark of his magic to his hidden fingertips, "Aren't worth the air you breathe."

Adnet choked, tried to gasp for breath that Loki had momentarily withheld. He only did it for a few seconds, just enough time to inspire the fear of a god, and then he released his hold.

Adnet began to suck in mouthfuls of air. Loki barely noticed Porthos' surprised amusement on his left, but he was acutely aware of the faint shiver that had taken a hold of Aramis at his threat.

It had been a shiver of desire.

It almost made him smirk, and he realised what it was about this situation that seemed so strange. Although Loki could so very easily kill Adnet, it was bizarrely entertaining to watch Aramis' reactions instead.

He grasped that this was a game, not torture at all.

"Now, now, Loki, this man's done no wrong," Aramis said soothingly, but Loki saw the glint of humour in his eye.

Apparently this was part of the plan, because Porthos tilted his head to the side in consideration and growled, "Well, he _did _just say that his boss tried to kill you."

"I loved that jacket," Aramis remarked mournfully.

Porthos leaned in close to the man, whose eyes were still locked on Loki's cool regard. Even when Porthos spoke, he didn't look away from the biggest danger, "We don't like it when you try to kill us."

"Hurt one of us and you hurt us all," Aramis added with a low thread of threat to his voice that Loki almost smiled at. He had seen a new side of Aramis today, and he rather liked it.

"And you hurt our Aramis here pretty bad," Porthos rumbled aggressively, genuine wrath in his tone now.

Adnet began to struggle, fear a skittering thing on his face. "It wasn't me, I didn't do it, someone else ordered me to come here, I don't-"

Loki narrowed his eyes and let his distaste of the pitiful excuse for a man flow through him. He took one menacing step forward and hissed, "Who?"

"Beland!" The man cried, practically sobbing, and Porthos and Aramis immediately straightened, the threat on their faces fading so swiftly that Loki blinked.

They had been pretending the entire time. All it had been was a game of give and take, threats and compliments.

_That _was why the light humour had seemed so misplaced, they were merely toying with Adnet and making each other laugh with their faux-threats.

He should have known that they weren't going to torture him, honourable things that they were, but to see them gain the same amount of information without the mess of sweat or blood was…

Well, it was admirable.

"Nice work," Porthos addressed Loki with a pleased grin, shocking him slightly. "Your sneer was finally useful."

"_I _enjoyed it," Aramis murmured for his ears alone, "I can't say our friend did though."

Loki hid his smile and cast another glance at the terrified man. Adnet had sagged against his bonds, but he still watched Loki as if he might lunge for him.

Aramis did too, but then Aramis looked like he rather wanted it to happen.

Athos pushed off from the wall before Loki could decide what to do with that information, and joined them by the windows, Thor finally relaxing when Porthos settled at his side.

"Beland shouldn't be an issue; we've come across him before."

"Small fry," Porthos commented.

Aramis nodded. "Unless he's ruling from Soulier's seat."

"That changes things," Athos acquiesced.

"We need to know where he is," d'Artagnan piped up.

They all looked at Loki, apart from Aramis, who held up a hand and said gallantly, "Allow me."

Loki rocked back on his heels, greatly amused by this turn of events. Porthos had done the roughing up, and Aramis was the balm that softened.

Was charming Aramis claiming that _he_ could scare the information out of Adnet?

Aramis dug in his pockets for a minute, a look of mild concentration on his face. Porthos and Athos chuckled first, which prompted d'Artagnan to try and grimace to cover a smile.

Finally, Aramis smiled and revealed an apple.

"Ah," he said softly, and approached Adnet with the fruit in hand. Adnet leaned back a little, but he was still shooting Loki wary glances instead of watching the Musketeer who moved with such smooth grace.

Adnet stilled when Aramis placed the apple on his head, stepped back 5 paces, and in a movement that Loki wasn't quite sure that he had seen, wielded his arquebus and looked down the barrel.

It was a sight that Loki was fairly certain he would never forget.

"Aramis," Athos chided, "You're not drunk."

Adnet looked wildly at each of them, clearly as confused as he and Thor were. Wasn't Aramis being sober a good thing if he planned to make a shot? This one wasn't even that difficult for someone of Aramis' calibre.

Porthos grinned and said in a stage-whisper, "He only ever makes this shot when he's in his cups."

D'Artagnan nodded seriously, earning an amazed look from Thor when the boy pulled his hair back. "That's how I lost this ear, he'd only had two bottles of wine."

Loki peered closer, but couldn't see past the dust dancing in the scant light. He was almost certain that d'Artagnan had no such injury, but if he was standing two feet away and couldn't see, Adnet definitely couldn't.

"I can do it," Aramis said with airy confidence, and Loki couldn't hold back his laugh when Adnet began to babble incoherently.

Aramis' gaze flicked from Adnet's to his, and heated amusement seared him until Adnet's wriggling captured Aramis' attention again.

Bereft, Loki wondered whether he should just kill Adnet so that Aramis wouldn't be distracted.

There was a click that echoed around the room and then Aramis' arquebus wavered in a way that did him complete injustice. Adnet was too terrified to notice that Aramis' arms were steady, or that his legs were braced perfectly.

Or, Loki realised as his fingers found his pistol, that Aramis hadn't even loaded his gun.

It was impossible for Aramis to miss, his accuracy was superb, and yet he still wasn't taking any chances with accidentally blowing Adnet's head off.

When Loki looked to his side, it was to see that Thor was the only one who wasn't grinning at him. He was part of one of their jokes now, and he felt humour bubble in his throat.

Before it could sound, Aramis' deceptively cheerful voice distracted them all, "Where is Beland?"

Adnet was holding himself so stiffly that even his breathing was shallow as he tried to keep the apple steady. This apparently displeased Aramis, who tutted loudly – which made his aim falter even further.

"I said," Aramis murmured, and it was now very threatening. The amusement in Loki's chest flared and took on a different sort of enjoyment that had him inhaling sharply.

"Lagny-sur-Marne," Adnet gasped pre-emptively, trying to wriggle from the gun's quivering barrel. Loki was almost disappointed that the man had given the information up so easily, it was thoroughly entertaining watching Aramis' methods of interrogation.

But Aramis lowered his arquebus jerkily and approached Loki's side quicker than he had to, a vulnerable edge to his expression all of a sudden.

Athos considered them all carefully and then sighed, "Back to Marteaux Forest, then."

Aramis flinched, and Loki found that his rage had risen again. It was a shame that Soulier was dead, for Loki wanted to kill the cretin himself.

Instead, Loki brought his sparkling fingertips to Aramis' spine and brushed ice where he knew with damning clarity the fatal wound had been.

Aramis leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed in relief. Loki kept his hand there longer than was strictly necessary, even as he wished he could drive it through Soulier's chest and offer Aramis his bloody heart.

* * *

**AN: Inspired by the first episode, because Porthos and Aramis interrogating [completely forgotten his name help me] is just the funniest - and yet somehow adorable - thing ever. _Bang!_**

**"You know, people tell me I'm rather good at writing author's notes." - K.**

**^Whoops I too have forgotten his name and rather than look it up like a responsible writer I shall leave it like that for the reader's amusement. Go on. Judge us. We failed you. **

**Also, your ego seems somewhat inflated, my dear. Though the notes are rather brilliant. - L  
**

**I WAS DOING THE ARAMIS QUOTE. _YOU_ HAVE FAILED ME. - K**

**I AM AWARE OF THAT I MEAN REALLY WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR. I DID NOT KNOW IT WAS NECESSARY TO APPLAUD YOUR BRILLIANT QUOTE USAGE, BUT IT WAS BRILLIANT. You'd better read this. - L  
**


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Porthos and Loki bond over corpse mutilation, Thor and D'Artagnan bond over that not happening. Treville pays a serious compliment whilst obviously hoping that they stop scampering around his feet. - K**

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN  
**

Thor could sense something had changed since the morning. There was no banter now, no friendly teasing, no laughter. Faces grim with determination rode beside him. A slow, simmering rage seemed to have built up in that abandoned warehouse, evident in Athos's curt orders and Porthos's cracking knuckles.

Thor still felt shame when he thought of that warehouse. He'd been too ready to believe that his new companions would sink to torture, when it should have been obvious they were all far too honorable. It had come as a great relief when he'd finally seen the ploy for what it was.

Loki, of course, had seen through it in an instant and gone along with the game. Thor shook his head, amazed once more at his brother's cleverness.

"The barn is not far now," Athos called suddenly.

Thor frowned, confusion sweeping through him.

"Why aren't we going to Marteaux Forest? We should take the fight to the enemy!" Thor called over the rumble of hooves, careful to keep his voice low. No one wanted to be overheard again.

Porthos glanced up from where he was riding between Thor and Aramis. "When Athos cut him down, Adnet started blabbering, begging us not to kill him. As if we would," Porthos snorted.

D'Artagnan broke in from his other side. "Told us how he had more information if only we'd spare his life." A wicked grin crossed the youthful features, making the lad seem suddenly older.

"I'm surprised he kept anything back after seeing Loki," Aramis murmured, amusement in his voice. Thor watched his brother scowl, but knew him well enough to catch the pleased edge to the expression.

"Anyway," Porthos went on, "On the way to the prison cart he told us about how his personal orders were actually coming straight from a barn outside of Paris. Some underling of Beland's, probably."

"So? Isn't Beland himself the greater threat?"

"We cannot leave a criminal operation on the outskirts of Paris," Athos said simply, reining his stallion to a halt. "This is far enough. We'll proceed on foot from here."

The others dismounted smoothly, leading their horses into the underbrush. Thor looped his reins around the bole of a tree before giving it a farewell pat. He saw Aramis sneak an apple to his own stallion before rejoining the others.

They approached the barn in silence, wary of sentries, but they spotted no one until they reached the dilapidated structure. The door was half-open, and they could see a few shadowy shapes passing back and forth within.

"Doesn't seem to be very many of them," Porthos whispered, glancing askance at Athos.

"Perhaps we should give them the chance to surrender?" Aramis added.

Athos looked back at them, considering. "Thor, D'Artagnan, you two hang back by the doors when we enter. Make sure no one else comes in. The rest of you are with me. I want swords drawn and guns ready. With any luck, they'll give in without a fight."

"When are we ever lucky?" Thor heard D'Artagnan mutter as they fell into position.

Ahead of them, the others had reached the barn doors without an alarm being raised. "Porthos, if you would?" Athos murmured.

Porthos grinned and stepped forward, flinging the doors back with crashing force as Athos strolled idly past him. Aramis smirked and followed him through, gun already on his shoulder.

Thor and D'Artagnan took up their position by the door as Athos and the others strode into the center of the barn, their progress marked by the stares of half a dozen shocked looking men.

"Greetings," Athos said formally, drawing his pistol. Loki and Porthos mirrored the motion. "We'd like to speak with you leader, if you'd be so kind."

The men continued to stare blankly. Athos sighed. "We don't really have to do this the hard way, do we?"

"There's hardly anyone here," Aramis said with a frown as he took in the deserted room.

Athos looked back, gesturing for Thor and D'Artagnan to join them. D'Artagnan stalked forward to guard Athos's back and Thor fell into position beside Porthos.

A figure stepped out onto the landing at the far end of the barn. "I believe you're looking for me." Athos stiffened and Thor caught the hint of a growl from Porthos.

"Beland." It was Aramis who broke the silence.

Ah, so this was the leader. He was smaller than Thor had imagined their great enemy might be. Ahead, Athos gestured subtly behind his back, motioning for Thor and D'Artagnan to join them.

"Aramis," the man said, an oily tone to his deep voice. "I was told you were dead."

Thor glanced over in time to see Loki's shoulders tighten at the words. Porthos shifted from Thor's side to Aramis's, and Thor obediently took up the space at Aramis's back as Loki flared his fingers on Aramis's left.

Aramis didn't even blink at the sudden shift, and Thor had to admire his courage. "Well, I'm not." He even flashed the man a charming smile.

Beland sneered. It was not half as intimidating or contemptuous as his brother's. "We can change that."

Men erupted from all around them, streaming in through hidden doors that all but exploded off their hinges under the press of bodies. A gunshot rang out, and Thor glanced up to see Beland staggering back as a snarling Porthos tossed his pistol to the side and drew his sword.

Thor turned to swing Mjolnir at a man wielding a flimsy looking sword. It snapped under the force of his blow and the man flew through the air until he collided with the barn wall, shaking the rafters.

Glancing around for another opponent, he saw Porthos charging up the stairs to where a bleeding Beland was waiting to meet him. They met with a ringing crash and Thor spared a moment to admire the Musketeer's form as he rained fury on the man, whose sneer had disappeared, before Thor whirled back to face his next challenger.

It was obvious their attackers had no chance. Only a few among them had any real skill, and Thor could see Loki subtly picking them off with his magic when the others weren't looking. He sent another two men crashing across the room and looked around, checking that none of his mortal companions were having any trouble.

Athos was easily fencing two men at once, while behind him Aramis knocked one out with the hilt of his sword. Porthos was on the verge of breaking through Beland's harried defense. Which left only…

D'Artagnan was fighting a scrawny man near one of the hidden doors, but just behind him Thor could see a large shape making its way into the barn. Of all things, there was a hammer dangling in his massive grip, though not one as impressive as Mjolnir.

The only problem was he was heading directly for the young Musketeer.

And the pup hadn't seen him.

Thor launched himself across the room as the huge man raised the hammer, ready to bring it crashing down across the lad's back. He slammed into D'Artagnan just before the blow landed, feeling it reverberate through his body as it crashed into the back of his left shoulder.

The man roared in what was probably triumph, but it was cut off as Thor wrenched the hammer from his grasp. The man gaped at him. Admittedly, the blow had hurt more than Thor had expected, but it was hardly as ferocious as those he'd received from Volstagg.

Thor roared right back at the man before ramming Mjolnir into his ribs. It landed with a satisfying crack.

"Are you alright?" D'Artagnan asked frantically.

"Yes, of course." The boy was still staring at him in disbelief, and only then did Thor remember that such an injury would've killed a human. He searched for a plausible explanation. "My armor protected me."

Apparently the boy believed him, for his shoulders relaxed and he grinned. "Thanks for that, then. That thing would've crushed me!"

"D'Artagnan, Thor," Athos called, beckoning them to the foot of the stairs. The boy shot him one last grin before darting over to join his leader.

When Thor reached them, he found that they had gathered around a bullet-ridden, sword slashed corpse that appeared as if it had been kicked down the stairs.

"Beland," Aramis informed him, catching his bewilderment.

"Shouldn't a threatened you, should he?" Porthos growled. Thor was struck anew with admiration for the man, for his great ability to care.

"You did all this?" D'Artagnan asked, sounding impressed. Across from him, Thor caught the way Loki shifted, and smiled to himself. Some of the slashes on the body were surely inflicted by his brother, probably after the man was already dead.

He watched Loki glance over at Porthos, who gave him the tiniest of nods in return. This was getting very strange. The pair had actually _bantered_ today.

Before he had time to ponder this strange development, Athos bent down and began rifling through the blood-stained jacket. He straightened a moment later.

"What's this?" he asked softly, revealing a document that had escaped mostly unsplattered. His fingers traced the wax seal at the bottom and he frowned.

"What is it?" D'Artagnan asked, leaning over his shoulder to get a closer look.

"Orders to follow us any time we leave the garrison. And this," Athos said thoughtfully, tapping the seal, "bears Soulier's own mark."

"Soulier is dead," Porthos said sharply, glancing at Aramis.

"It could have been written ages ago," D'Artagnan suggested.

"But there would have been no reason to follow us before we met in Marteaux Forest." Athos was still staring at the document.

Thor frowned at the heavy wax seal, remembering something. "It is possible that someone has merely taken his ring. It doesn't mean that he himself used it."

Loki looked up then, a smile on his face that stunned Thor with its happy memory. Often had they stolen their father's golden crow-stamped ring and used it for their own ends, signing orders for gifts and food to be brought to their rooms in the dead of night.

Of course, it had always been Loki's idea.

"That's true," Athos said, inclining his head to Thor. "Either way, we'd best show it to Treville."

He led the way from the barn. As they walked, Porthos fell into step beside Thor, his shoulder brushing the one the hammer had fallen on.

It already seemed to hurt less.

* * *

Athos led the way into Treville's office. There was a brief scuffle behind him as Porthos and Loki both tried to enter the doorway at the same time, but Aramis wisely yanked the back of Porthos's belt so that fell a step behind.

This was the first mission in the last few weeks that Athos could stand before his captain and not feel the creeping guilt at his failure to bring all his men back unharmed. Only Thor had taken a blow of any sort, and when Aramis had checked he'd hardly had a bruise. After all their trouble lately, it was nice to have a victory.

"You've found something," Treville said. It wasn't a question.

"One of Soulier's lieutenants. Beland." Athos saw the flicker of recognition in Treville's eyes. "He was operating a base just outside of Paris."

"Was?" Treville asked, a hint of wry amusement in his tone. "I take it he's not operating anything now."

"Definitely not," Porthos grunted. Athos knew without turning that Aramis would be smiling at that.

"We found some documents on his corpse," he went on, ignoring the silent exchanges now taking place among his companions, a jumble of meaningful glances and lingering looks with which they all communicated. Loki had picked up on them with surprising ease. Only Thor stood without fidgeting, oblivious to the inaudible conversation.

"What kind of documents?" Treville asked, immune to the ridiculousness that was Aramis trying to tell Porthos some kind of joke using only his eyes and the shift of his head.

Athos drew the papers from within his jacket. "Documents pertaining to their current Parisian operations." He handed them to Treville. "These orders were issued recently."

Treville was gazing steadily at the wax seal on the bottom of the first page. Only the tightening of his jaw told Athos that he'd surprised his captain.

"It's his seal, isn't it?"

Treville nodded. "It's Soulier's, yes." He ran a hand across his face and sighed. "You know this means that he might be alive."

Athos met his gaze unflinchingly. "No."

Treville frowned at him. "You've seen the seal, Athos-"

"I _shot _him." His flexed his hand to keep it from forming into a fist at the memory of the smug look on that bastard's face when he told them he'd shot Aramis.

Wisely, Treville decided not to press the issue. "Whoever gave these orders, they are in a position of power they cannot be allowed to maintain." He frowned thoughtfully at the paper, but Athos was distracted by D'Artagnan leaning forward slightly at the other end of the line to catch his eye.

The look he shot him clearly said in absolute exasperation, _drinks, after?_

Well, the lad had never been very patient during briefings.

Silently, Athos replied, _and have you leave me with them when you run off to Constance?_

A blush crept up D'Artagnan's cheeks before he shot him a sheepish scowl that said, _shut up, Athos._

Athos laughed under his breath even as he despaired of his sanity.

It was like being friends with a bunch of children.

Except that children didn't get up to such dangerous mischief when he wasn't looking, and nor did they flash each other such ridiculous grins until Athos had to cough loudly and they all immediately looked forward, as if nothing had happened.

Treville's lip twitched. "As I was saying, you should make good time to Lagny-sur-Marne."

Athos recovered first. "You're sending us?"

"Well, you are the best," said Treville, raising his eyebrows. "God help us all," he added dryly. "Besides, you seem to have all returned intact for once, so there's nothing to keep me from sending you right back out."

"We can go as well, I hope?" Thor asked eagerly, and Athos fought a smile at the similarity to D'Artagnan. Just what they needed. Two of him.

"If this operation is as sophisticated as it sounds, they'll need the help." Athos noted with a faint sense of pride that Treville did not say backup, implying that Thor and Loki were the equals of the Musketeers.

"I'm sure they could handle it themselves if necessary, but we are always happy to help," Thor told him earnestly. Athos heard a soft snort of exasperation from Loki's general vicinity.

Treville smiled at Thor's offer. "Regardless, I'm glad you two are going with them, I thought you'd have left by now."

Athos saw Loki shift out of the corner of his eye even as Thor exclaimed brightly, "We thought we'd stay a little longer!"

Porthos grinned at that, but Loki seemed to stiffen slightly, clarifying quickly, "We still have some things that we need to see to before we leave."

Thor dimmed visibly at his brother's hasty dismissal. The distinct lessening of joyous enthusiasm was suddenly reflected in Porthos and Aramis's faces as well.

Good lord, if they were any more obvious they'd have signs stuck in their hats.

Athos couldn't judge them too harshly, however. He had to confess himself disappointed by Loki's words. He'd begun to hope the brothers were thinking about staying on.

Apparently Treville's thoughts had been travelling along similar lines, because he sighed in disappointment. "That's a shame. We could have used two good men in the Musketeers."

Athos stiffened even as the collective jaws of D'Artagnan, Aramis, and Porthos dropped almost to the floor. Loki and Thor didn't notice, however, but merely preened under what they failed to understand was perhaps the greatest compliment he would ever give them.

Treville was right, though. They would be excellent Musketeers. He just hadn't expected the stoic captain to say it so blatantly.

"Well, head down to the stores to gather what you'll need," Treville ordered, rising behind his desk. "I expect good news when you return."

Athos nodded a farewell and followed the others out of the office, pausing on the stairs to watch them stream into the courtyard.

Loki and Aramis went to ready the horses, while Thor and Porthos headed to gather the supplies. D'Artagnan hesitated a moment, clearly torn between which group to join before ultimately trailing after Thor. Perhaps it was because the large warrior had saved him in the barn.

Or perhaps it was because he wouldn't have to hear any of Aramis's blatant flirting.

Athos had seen the man in the barn just before he attacked D'Artagnan. He had known he was too slow to get there in time and for just a moment, his heart had ceased to beat, crushed by the fear of losing another brother.

Then Thor had appeared from nowhere and taken the blow, and Athos had breathed again. He owed Thor D'Artagnan's life, and that was a debt he'd never be able to repay.

Just as he owed Loki for Aramis's. He didn't know what had happened in that forest, but he knew Soulier had truly believed he'd shot Aramis. And yet they'd returned to find Aramis uninjured but for the cut between his shoulders. It was not Athos's place to pry, but he was no fool. Something else had happened that day. He didn't know what, but it had been a long time since he'd felt gratitude that intense.

And whatever else they might be, both men were truly incredible fighters. Thor could take on a crowd of men with only his hammer and emerge victorious and laughing, while Loki was quick and deadly as a panther. Athos was sure that if he tallied the kills made in that barn, Loki's count would exceed all others.

Besides, they were also intelligent and good company whenever Loki forgot to be so cold, and Athos had noticed he'd warmed considerably since their arrival. Maybe it wasn't too much to hope that they would yet decide to stay.

He could see Aramis smiling enchantingly over by the stables, charm turned on all the way, and felt his own mouth twitch into a wry smile. Of course, the fact that Aramis and Porthos were like enamoured school boys was also a reason to like them.

Athos found it endlessly amusing to watch Aramis slowly win Loki over. It was just as entertaining to see Thor assume that Porthos paid that much attention to _everyone_. He wondered how long it would take them all to stop dancing around the issue and just give in to the inevitable. Surely it would make everyone's life much easier.

Then he grimaced, realizing that it would probably just make everything much worse. Still, at least they'd be happy, even if Athos would have to start drinking twice as much as he already did just to clean the images from his mind of all the terrible things he'd no doubt walk in on.

Shuddering, he strode down the steps, calling the others to join him.

It was time to go back to Marteaux Forest.

* * *

**AN: Athos you don't even realise how disgustingly adorable they would be, if only they just stopped being like prancing ponies. Review, review, _s'il vous plait!_ - K.**

**^They aren't ponies, they're all puppies and they're the cutest things on the planet. - L**


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Porthos and Loki play 'lets-jump-into-this-boiling-hot-frying-pan-ouch-wait-no-it-hurts-this-was-YOUR-idea-you-bastard-I-hate-you', whilst the others ponder the benefits of being deaf or possibly dead. Also something about a bridge and a huge reveal. - K**

**OH MY GOD WE ARE ACTUALLY SO FAR THROUGH THIS NOW I DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE. HOW EXCITING. BIG CLIMAX COMING UP. - L  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

There was a definite reluctance in returning to the place that Aramis and Porthos had skirted death. It sat like a stiffness along Aramis' spine and the glower on Porthos' face. Even Athos' lazy attitude seemed tempered with wary glances at their surroundings, clearly expecting an ambush.

It set Loki's hackles up.

Irritation was like a haze in the air, thick and infuriating, like a cloud of bugs that buzzed incessantly. It was too hot; their horses could only maintain a weary plodding as they walked steadily onwards down the wide road to Lagny-sur-Marne.

Even D'Artagnan was sullen and silent, barely responding to Thor's jubilant questions and inane comments about the scenery. Aramis was the only other who seemed immune to the weather, his expression bright and, perhaps, slightly peaky, as if he was worried about something but was determined to hide it under gaiety.

His magic prickled at his fingertips until it hurt, as if when a sleeping limb regains its blood and the tingles are almost painful. He would only have to wave his hand to bring a cloud overhead, or even a whisper of a breeze, just _some_ sort of reprieve.

But no, because no one could know about his magic.

It was a learned holdover from his youth, when his father had told him that relying on his magic was weak, that warriors used their physical capabilities, not a woman's art of weaving arcane power.

Only his mother had encouraged his learning, she had taught him everything he knew until he had surpassed even her. And now, here he was, forced to suffer beyond the pale on this godforsaken planet, like some sort of _mortal-_

"It is very hot, isn't it, _mon ange?_" Aramis asked, and Loki stiffened at the hint of expectation in his tone, at the hopeful question.

For Aramis _knew_, he knew of his magic,and yet Loki had thought that Aramis respected his need for secrecy. There was normally something reverential in the way that Aramis regarded his power, the way a man views an omnipotent god.

And he was not to be beseeched.

"If you stopped tipping your hat at everyone we pass, you wouldn't feel the heat."

Aramis merely smiled, something like satisfaction turning it pleased. "I like to be polite."

Porthos snorted in mocking amusement on Aramis' other side, and Loki was too irritated to restrain his scowl. Was this some sort of game played at his expense? He knew that Aramis was friendly bordering on the obscene, but the man was very aware of his effect on others.

Too aware.

And he did _not_ affect gods.

"Perhaps you should learn to be more discerning, then. Your standards are," he paused to observe Aramis bow in his saddle at a particularly ugly youth that passed, "Lax."

Porthos muttered something under his breath that made Aramis lay a calming hand on his shoulder, and contempt curled Loki's lip. No matter what he did, Aramis always returned to Porthos' overly protective side. Bitterness unfurled in his stomach. Did the pair of them think to toy with him and his brother?

They were beneath them, as was the rest of this disgustingly hot planet.

"Beauty is only skin-deep, Loki," Aramis murmured. "It's what's inside that makes a person, that… inner-light."

Loki flinched and flashed the man a glance, seeing a sense of _knowing_ to his warm smile as he continued, "Wouldn't you agree, _mon ange?_"

Did Aramis think to coerce him; was it some sort of manipulation because he knew of his magic?

"I wouldn't know, I haven't found anyone worth looking that closely at," he said haughtily, unwilling to submit to the charms of the attractive Musketeer.

Porthos growled a curse that he didn't hear, but Aramis just laughed, "It's surprising what can catch your eye quite out-of-the-blue."

Loki bristled. His silk shirt was sticking to his skin and his magic was making his fingers twitch. He had had enough, he didn't understand these strange Midgardian customs, couldn't cope with being such an outcast when Thor had settled in so well.

"Then close your eyes," he snapped, "What you cannot see cannot tempt you."

"Woah," Porthos called angrily, "Simmer down."

D'Artagnan groaned, "Don't use that word, it's too hot."

"You are all useless," Loki snarled, "You cannot even deal with a bit of heat."

"Then leave!" Porthos yelled past Aramis' shocked face. "If you don't like us, fuck off."

"Fine!" he hissed, ignoring Athos' concerned look, and Thor and D'Artagnan's looks of distress. If he wasn't wanted, he would disappear, it wasn't as if he cared overly for any of them. He would find the way home and drag Thor with him, kicking and screaming, if he must.

He lifted his reins in preparation to bolt, but Athos swerved in ahead of him. "Wait," he said with a thread of command that Loki stilled at, "Now is not the time for this."

"Then when is the time, Athos," Porthos asked angrily, "When he's decided that we aren't worth fighting alongside? What if he turns his back on us when we're fighting?"

Thor frowned and, for the first time in their long lives, spoke up for Loki's sake. "My brother would not do that."

Porthos scowled at the familial relation, and it deepened when D'Artagnan said quietly, "Loki's proved himself."

Loki inhaled sharply, almost overwhelmed with surprise, but his eyes jumped to Aramis' and saw him only staring at his horse's mane.

So, Aramis chose Porthos.

"I won't stay where I'm not wanted," he spat, and wheeled his mount around to head back down the road.

His hand lifted to snap the reins, but then Aramis' landed on top of his. "You _are _wanted, Loki."

"When has he ever helped us?" Porthos grumbled, only slightly mollified.

Aramis met Loki's gaze then, and there was some firm resolution in those warm, brown depths.

_No, _he tried to blurt, but a small, almost tremulous smile had graced Aramis' sensual lips as he said, "He has helped each of us." He turned to Porthos then, but his fingers tightened on Loki's. "He healed you."

Loki froze, a learned anxiety squirming in his stomach. Thor shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to and from Loki's as Porthos frowned and said, "No, _you_ did, you stitched me up."

Aramis' grip turned painful as he choked out, "You were dying, _mon ami_, I couldn't save you." Athos' eyes narrowed as Aramis turned back to Loki, and the look on his face was so grateful that it clutched at his chest. "But Loki did."

Porthos snorted in amused confusion. "Saved me? With what, magic?" It was said sarcastically, but he was right.

"Light," Aramis provided quietly, clutching onto one of his religious beads with his right hand, as he rubbed his left across Loki's stiff knuckles.

Porthos frowned and then turned to Thor, clearly seeking stability; but Thor hesitated and looked at Loki. He tried to have his best glare convey '_agree and I'll kill you_', but Thor couldn't lie to anyone, least of all these honourable idiots, and so he shrugged. "Loki has been a mage since we were young."

Loki closed his eyes and sighed, wondering how on Midgard this had come to happen – and then remembered that Midgard _was_ the reason for all of this chaos.

When he opened them again, it was to see them all looking at him, as if waiting for a demonstration.

"What?" he snapped, and was bitterly pleased to see Aramis and Thor look away guiltily.

Athos was the only one who met his baleful stare, and simply tilted his head for Loki to join him at the front of their party.

It was only when Loki turned his nose up at the others so that he could join Athos, that he realised the perceptive man had tricked him into staying.

When he flashed Athos a damning glance, a tiny smile tilted the man's lips, and Loki couldn't help but laugh under his breath.

Clever mortal.

* * *

Aramis felt all of the breath whoosh out of him, and to be honest, it felt like Loki had dealt him a body blow.

He had been prepared to chase after his unreasonable angel and drag him into an impromptu kiss, whilst simultaneously mentally telling Porthos to _be quiet_. He had just _had_ to pick the hottest moment of the day to pick a fight, and chosen the most hot-headed – and yet coolly cutting – one to fight with.

Thank God that Athos had thought to cut Loki off before he could run. Loki was like a horse, if they weren't careful, he would spook, and who knew where angels could run to?

But the secret of his light was out now, and he was rather worried that Loki was holding him solely responsible.

But what should he have done? Let Loki think that he wasn't appreciated, let him disappear into the woods? No, he refused to let his angel out of his sight, not when he had become so very used to his little touches and lingering looks.

Loki might not reciprocate in kind, but neither did he try to pointedly ignore him like he used to.

Sometimes he even got a smile, and that little glimpse of mischief was too addictive to give up.

At least Loki had stayed in the end, even if he was now next to Athos, the two of them riding in supercilious silence up ahead. They were quite similar now that they thought of it, now that Aramis refused to acknowledge Porthos trying to get his attention.

It was an air of nobility that they shared. Not just the straight spines of authority, but an attitude that, at any moment, they might look down their noses at you and sneer.

Of course, Loki could, and he did it so well that it gave Aramis shivers of delight.

Loki could easily pass for a Comte, actually.

"Aramis, please," Porthos muttered, "I said I was sorry."

He sighed, unable to deny Porthos' laughably miserable look, and bestowed a despairing smile at his friend. "I love you, Porthos, I do, but sometimes…"

"I know, I know. He just," Porthos took a breath and snarled, "He pisses me off."

"He saved your life," he replied quietly.

"Yeah, well, I'll believe that when I see it."

Aramis grimaced and cast a glance at the haughty pair ahead of them. He hoped he hadn't truly upset his angel, he just wanted to ensure everyone realised how truly wonderful he was.

He just wanted Loki to realise that.

* * *

Any journey was too long when they had to not only stable their horses, but continue on foot because the innkeeper's map showed an alternate path into Marteaux Forest.

The Musketeers were far more trusting than Loki was; he took one look at the landlord and decided that he was an ingrate that didn't deserve their attention, let alone their patronage.

Although, the boy that took their horses had made Loki smile; his grubby face had lit up at the sight of six warhorses all bedecked in Musketeer leather. He had stayed back to warn Gerard about his mare's tendency to bite strangers, and blinked in surprise when the lad had simply touched noses with her and remarked, "Aw, she's awright, m'sieur."

He had given the shyly smiling boy a lump of gold and his mare an apple, before striding off to find the others.

All of that was inconsequential though, because Athos had simply had a murmured discussion – seemingly with himself – and reasoned that anything that might give them an edge would be useful.

This was why they found themselves picking their way through what was no more than a goat track, the sun still beating down upon them, and nothing but grunted questions and answers splitting the heavy air.

Somehow, he had ended up at the front of the group, his keen eye choosing the sturdiest steps and avoiding the copious rabbit holes that threatened to stumble him.

Midgard was a truly disastrous rock.

They split into single-file to traverse a bridge strung between a ravine, and the only noises were their disheartened sighs and D'Artagnan's cheeky, "Careful Thor, you'll send us all crashing to our deaths."

Aramis cuffed him on the back of the head. "Don't tempt fate, _vaurien_."

Loki ignored their whining and started ahead, not finding favour with the sun-dried wood and the scratchy rope under his hands. He silently cursed the mortals who didn't service every single footpath, but reasoned that the less travelled this trail, the more likely no one would be watching it.

The easier it would be to storm the enemy's camps, kill everyone, and continue his search for the way home.

He still stopped to glare at Thor when his brother finally stepped onto the bridge as the tail of their group and jokingly wiggled it. Good-natured jeers met his chuckle and Loki considered summoning a brisk breeze to truly rattle them for being so foolish.

Over the creaking of the boards, Loki heard a strange noise that caught his attention.

The bridge quivered again, Athos' quiet threats sounded, Porthos tried to punch Thor for messing about, and as Loki beheld the ground a mere metre away, the rope creaked and tore under his hand.

On instinct, he lunged forward, desperate to take his weight off of the outrageously unsafe structure.

_Why _had Thor insisted on being an insufferable oaf now of all times?

With his feet wedged in the grass, he reached for the swiftly unravelling rope rail, and _held._ It burned like fire along his fingers and his boots slipped an inch.

He looked up and thought, _it's going to fall._

So he let go.

There was a shout of utter rage, and it came from Porthos. The dark man had grabbed Aramis to his chest and bared his teeth murderously at Loki, it said: _you_ _traitor._

Thor stared dubiously at the distance below them. He would survive the fall, but the mortals would not. He looked up at the skies and his guilt-ridden face said: _I'm sorry._

Athos had one palm on D'Artagnan's shoulder, the other gripping the rail, but his eyes were cool and commanding, and they said: _Loki,_ _focus._

There was no _time _to focus.

The rope snapped.

He threw out a hand and his magic thundered through his arm, spilling out in a gush that lashed onto the frayed end of the rope. There was a moment where nothing happened, nobody moved, but neither did the bridge.

It was steady.

He had it.

He very, very slowly pulled his hand back, curling his fingers to coax the rope back around the wooden post, tying it in the most complicated knot he knew and, after a glance around, flicked his others fingers to warp the wood around the rope for good measure.

As an added precaution, he looked down the length of the bridge with his magic and quested for other signs of weakness. He solidified threads under Thor's weight and tightened the knots at the other end.

Finally, he let everything go, and the bridge sagged under its own weight again.

They all jerked with the drop, and then everything was still once more as they all stared at Loki.

Loki grit his teeth and stared back. "I would get off of that if I were you."

Athos moved first, clapping D'Artagnan reassuringly on the shoulder to get him moving. The latter stared at him in wide-eyed amazement as he darted past, Athos stopping in Loki's blind spot to idly examine the bridge.

Loki ignored him; he couldn't relax until everyone was on solid ground.

Aramis came next, sliding out of Porthos' stunned grasp to meet Loki's gaze with tender amazement, a quiet, "Thank you, _mon ange_," dropping from his lips. A part of him wanted to grab the back of Aramis' neck and demand to know what had taken him so long to get off of that blasted bridge.

But then Porthos appeared at Aramis' elbow, giving Loki a quick, uncertain glance and what might have been muttered gratitude. Loki knew that was all he would receive from the man, Porthos was one of those people who disliked things they couldn't understand, and mortals couldn't explain magic.

Unless, of course, they called it _light, _he thought as he cast an amused glance at Aramis' back.

Thor thundered through, giving Loki's shoulder the same treatment that Athos had given D'Artagnan, except Thor's was bruising and ridiculously full of pride.

And then they had walked on, and Loki was left standing next to Athos, who was studying his knot carefully. Athos tugged on the rope and made a pleased noise when it didn't even budge.

There was a strange amount of apprehension still in Loki's chest, even though the danger was past.

Athos looked up then, one of his tiny smiles on his face and his eyes clear as he said, "This is good work. Thank you, Loki."

D'Artagnan gave a strangled yelp. "Good? It was _amazing_!"

Thor chuckled loudly at D'Artagnan's cries of praise, and Aramis gave him a bright smile past Porthos' shaking head.

The apprehension disappeared.

* * *

**AN: And then Loki said, let there be light, and there was light, and Athos bid it good, and everyone was happy. Except Porthos. He was a grumpy shit... Please throw reviews at us and be merry! - K**

**^And Loki said unto himself, 'I have been a colossal idiot', and verily they did all agree. - L  
**


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Sometimes the most beautiful of environments can simply be the most beautiful backdrop to the sound of a heart breaking, and sometimes that heart will break further when forced somewhere bland. - K**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

After the shock of the bridge incident, not even Loki argued when Athos called them to a halt in a large clearing only a mile further into the forest. Thor alone seemed reluctant to continue, but he submitted to Athos's decision without complaint.

That was new.

Loki wandered the camp, feeling self-conscious in a way he had not felt since his father's court, where his magic was frowned upon and seen as cowardly. He'd never experienced open admiration before, and the looks the others kept throwing his way, especially D'Artagnan, made him uncomfortable.

Athos hadn't said anything about it since the bridge, and Loki was grateful for his discretion, but Porthos kept shooting him odd looks and Aramis's eyes followed him everywhere he went.

Though come to think of it, that wasn't exactly new.

But Loki refused to return his gaze, still furious at the casual way the man had revealed him to the others. Yes, they had accepted him regardless, and that was miraculous in itself, but Aramis _had no right_.

No right to tell anyone else what Loki had done for them; no right to think it was his place to do so. _I should have let him die_, Loki thought bitterly, but found himself immediately shying from the thought. Perhaps that was a bit much. But he should have let him suffer longer afterwards.

He didn't know how long he had paced before the merry crackling of a fire intruded upon his thoughts. "Loki, come and have something to eat," Athos called, the slight hint of command in his voice telling Loki it was not a suggestion.

Once he would have bristled at the presumption, but now he could recognize the concern that drove the oldest Musketeer. He stalked gracefully over to the circle of firelight, folding himself down between Thor and Athos and ignoring the hurt look Aramis shot at him from the other side of the fire.

He did notice that Aramis was not sitting beside Porthos, but that was neither here nor there.

D'Artagnan passed him a bowl, a strained expression on his face. It took Loki a moment to figure out the boy was desperately trying to contain his questions. He wondered idly who had told him to do that.

"Oh, just get on with it," he sighed, setting the bowl to the side as D'Artagnan's face lit up. Athos sent Loki a look that said, quite clearly, _you're going to regret that_.

"Why can you do magic?" D'Artagnan asked, excitement pouring off of him. "Where does it come from? Can anyone do it? Can you teach me?"

Porthos reached over and casually smacked a hand against the back of the boy's head. "Slow down before you choke on something."

"He's not even eating anything," Thor pointed out.

Athos snorted. "That won't stop him."

Aramis said nothing, and Loki refused to let the unusual silence bother him.

"I cannot teach you anything," he told D'Artagnan wearily, sensing which question was closest to the boy's heart. "And I cannot explain where it comes from. You would not understand."

"But that's not true, Loki!" Thor cut in, and Loki just knew his brother was about to tell the Musketeers all about Asgard and his magic and all of it and there was nothing he could do to stop him.

So he didn't try. Let their sheltered minds try to comprehend the majesty of their home, the vast gulf between them. Perhaps it would remind them all that Thor and Loki had to leave, and leave soon.

He amused himself with watching the various reactions of Thor's audience. D'Artagnan's jaw dropped lower and lower as Thor described Odin's golden palace and the glorious ranks of warriors that he led.

Porthos looked skeptical at Thor's claim to divinity, but when Thor described the great feasts and battles, his face split into a grin. He'd have fit in well with Thor and the Warriors Three.

Athos listened with interest, but his face remained blank and controlled. Once or twice, his eyes flicked to Loki's, but he did not interrupt or question anything Thor said.

Loki did not look at Aramis until Thor mentioned that Odin was their father. He heard the slight intake of breath, as if Aramis were in pain, and whipped his head around to check before he could remind himself not to care.

Aramis looked stricken. No one else seemed to have noticed, too intent on Thor's story about the time he and Loki had tried to hunt a bilgesnipe and got caught in Thor's own ridiculously overcomplicated trap. Aramis's eyes were narrowed and he was staring into the fire with desperate fervor.

It was unsettling.

"So you don't have magic, Thor?" D'Artagnan asked curiously.

"No, not I," Thor said, smiling at the boy. "My talents range more towards the physical." Porthos grinned lewdly at that, but Thor didn't notice. "Though these last few days I've begun to appreciate just how useful it would have been to learn. Perhaps I should have listened to my mother more as a child instead of sneaking out to hunt wild beasts."

Loki stared, too stunned to hide his shock. Thor had never, _never_, admitted to envying his magic. Thor blithely carried on, unaware that he'd just shocked Loki into silence, until D'Artagnan cut him off.

"So what I'm hearing is that with Loki's magic, we're basically unstoppable!" he exclaimed excitedly. Thor nodded, looking pleased that they would be able to fight to their full abilities at last.

Athos leaned forward, and Loki expected him to interject some tempering comment, but all he said was, "Yes, we do have an advantage now."

Loki stared at him and realized that _he _was their advantage. He wasn't a hindrance here, he was a help.

He was _valued._

He rose, feeling uncomfortable once more. Athos caught his eye and nodded once in understanding, and so Loki strode slowly away from the campfire, not wanting to appear sentimental.

He walked a short ways into the dark woods, trying to organize the unexpected flood of emotions now coursing through him. He did not have time for sentiment: he was a god! And yet the simple acceptance in the firelight had utterly disarmed him.

There was a crunching noise behind him, and he knew without turning it would be Aramis.

"What do you want?" he asked harshly, anger springing back up in the face of the intrusion.

Aramis hesitated, silhouetted by the fire behind him. "I came to apologize, _mon dauphin_," he said at last, voice so low Loki could hardly hear it.

Loki was momentarily thrown by the new phrase, but he refused to reveal his ignorance. "I do not accept your apology," he hissed. "_You had no right_."

"I merely looked to refute the idea that you were untrustworthy," Aramis said, his tone still pleading. "I did not want you to leave… leave us." _Leave me_ hung in the air, and Loki hated that he could hear it.

"I trusted you with my powers, and you revealed them without my permission," Loki growled. "It was not your place!"

"Porthos had no right to distrust you!" Aramis said hotly, his own temper flaring.

"It is not your right to defend me!" Loki snarled. He sensed this argument was skirting dangerous ground, an unstable quarry of things not said. "Do not make presumptions upon me simply because I shared my magic with you. I am not yours to take."

Aramis confirmed his suspicions a moment later. "So I can share your magic but not your bed?" he cried bitterly.

Loki recoiled, fury twisting within his gut. _How dare he?_

"I told you once before you had no claim to me and that I would not stoop to your level," he spat, ignoring the way Aramis flinched slightly at the reminder. "Understand this: I am not yours." A rage gripped his heart, and he wanted to hurt Aramis in that moment. "Run back to Porthos."

It was unfair, and they both knew it, but Loki would not apologize. Wordlessly, Aramis turned and slipped away, rage and hurt twisting his handsome features. By the firelight, Loki could see the others were already asleep. Aramis dropped soundlessly into his bedroll and rolled to face the other direction.

Growling, Loki spun around, itching to leave, but if he was the only one awake, then he must have first watch. He refused to move closer to the fire, dropping to the forest floor with irate grace and casting his mind out desperately in all directions.

He wanted to be off this barren rock. Once he returned to Asgard, he would never think of mortals again.

Gradually his heartbeat slowed as the meditative trance set in. He cast about, searching for any hint of Yggdrasil, any whisper of a way home. He had done this so many nights now that he was beginning to lose hope, but tonight something skittered along the edge of his consciousness, brushing peace along his taut nerves.

He increased his focus, narrowing in on the elusive murmur, and its presence increased until it was a siren call, beckoning him with its promise of a way home. Blindly, he stumbled to his feet and into the clearing, grabbing Thor's arm in a vicelike grip.

"Loki?" Thor asked blearily. "What is it?"

"Come on," Loki hissed, not bothering to explain as he bodily dragged his brother through the trees in the direction of the call. He didn't know how long they spent half running through the underbrush before he felt it burst into being just ahead.

He pushed through the trees and felt it wash over him like the tide. The power of Yggdrasil made his magic flare so bright it was almost painful. In the light, Loki could make out the edges of a broad circle etched into the burned ground.

He'd found a way home.

* * *

Aramis heard Loki wake Thor, heard them crash off together into the woods, but he did not move until he was sure they were out of sight. He wasn't sure he could bear to look on the dark angel so far out of his reach it was almost laughable.

Rolling wearily to his feet, he wandered over to a stump at the edge of the forest and sat down heavily, staring off in the direction the pair had disappeared. Whatever the reason, it must be serious. For all Loki's pretense of indifference, he wouldn't have left them undefended lightly.

It hit him like the heavy blow of a hammer. All the nights he stumbled upon Loki meditating, the way his gaze darted about when asked if he was staying: Loki had been searching for a way home.

And Aramis knew with painful certainty that he had found it.

He hadn't even said goodbye.

The ache that welled up in his chest stole the air from his lungs and sent tendrils of ice creeping through his veins. What had he expected, really? That an angel would ever deign to fall for a mere mortal?

His head thudded dully, the throbbing a constant reminder of his own idiocy. Loki was a prince, a glorious being of magic and grace descended from the very heavens. Of course he hadn't wanted Aramis. Angels could do better.

And now he would leave as suddenly as he had come. Aramis's heart cracked at the thought that his last words had been words of anger and hurt. He would take them back now if he could.

But he would never have the chance, because Loki was leaving.

It didn't bother him as much that Loki's last words to him had been cruel and cold, for what else had he come to expect? It was not in his angel's nature to be gentle.

Aramis felt his lips twist into a grimace. Not _his_ angel. Never his.

_No_, he thought suddenly, _that isn't quite true_. The thought rang through his head like the tolling of a bell, clearing away the anguish of the moment and replacing it with cool understanding.

Loki might not be his angel, but Aramis would always belong to him. He was long past the point of denying just how far he had fallen. Loki had stalked into his life and turned his world upside down, and his departure would leave a trail of devastation across the landscape of Aramis's heart, but he couldn't love him less for that.

A storm could not be blamed for its nature, and Loki had hit him like a blizzard.

The pain was already settling over him like a second skin, but he couldn't deny the gratitude that came with it. His heart might shatter to cracked pieces, but it would be worth it to have met the dark angel who could take his breath away with one look.

He half rose to his feet, the desire to follow Loki burning through him, melting the frost in his veins. He did not wish to stop him; he did not want to argue. It was not Aramis's place to hold an angel to the earth. If Loki needed to leave, Aramis would not stand in his way.

But he did want to say goodbye.

A sound from the fire stopped him, and he bowed his head under the weight of the knowledge that he could not follow. His companions needed him to guard their sleep, and loyalty demanded he place their needs above his own.

He settled back onto the stump.

His gaze roved over the camp, pausing at Porthos's slumbering form. He was limned in firelight, and once Aramis would have deemed him ethereal. But now he knew the face of divinity, it was hard to see it elsewhere.

Porthos grunted in his sleep and rolled slightly. A smile fought its way past the pain pounding in Aramis's chest and rose to his cheeks. He might lose his angel, but he would not be alone, at least.

The thought chased the smile away almost at once as he recalled that Thor had left with Loki. Would he return, or was the call of his home too strong?

Porthos would be deeply hurt by the sudden departure, and anger alit briefly in his chest before being smothered by despair. Porthos would recover. He was stronger than Aramis, and he had held his heart more carefully in reserve.

But Aramis's was lost, for he had never learned how to love anything less than wholeheartedly.

But perhaps Thor would stay? The thought was just as painful, for while Porthos would be protected, Loki would be left alone and faced with the loss of a brother he'd had by his side for millennia.

No, better Thor stay with Loki, for he was loved more than Loki ever let on. Aramis and Porthos would muddle their way back to happiness eventually.

He leaned his head back, gazing up at the stars scattered in whorls of light above his head. Loki's had descended from those lights. How very fitting that he return at last.

Aramis was so lost in his thoughts that he did not realize that the forest had fallen silent around him, nor that a faint crackling noise was approaching steadily.

He did notice the arm that snaked around his neck cutting off his air and keeping him from shouting an alarm.

The lack of oxygen sent numbness creeping through his limbs until he was unable to resist the hands dragging him back through the trees. Only when he could no longer see the firelight was he released, choking and gasping to fill starving lungs.

Rough rope was knotted tightly around his wrists, cutting into the delicate skin, and a dirty rag was stuffed into his mouth and knotted behind his head before he had finished gulping the chilled air. He tried desperately to breathe through his nose.

Then he was hauled back to his feet and dragged through the trees away from the sleeping forms of his brothers. He could not count the number of men surrounding him in the darkness, but the press of bodies was stifling. Roots caught at his feet and his arms were wrenched repeatedly as he fell again and again.

At one point the swell of men slowed and lessened, and he attempted to yank his arms free, testing the limits of his captors' mercy. A broken nose told him not to try these men again, and the rest of the journey was spent struggling to catch his breath past the steady drip of blood.

They came to a stop abruptly, and Aramis could make out a dark opening ahead of him against a wall of rock. He had no time to recognize anything beyond the entrance to the cave before he was bundled inside, soft dirt giving way to unforgiving rock.

Only a few meters in the cave twisted sharply to the left into a narrow tunnel, and Aramis scraped his arms and shoulders against the rough walls as he was carelessly shoved through. Torches blazed ahead as the cave opened up once more, and he blinked in the sudden brilliance.

He was dragged over to a rocky alcove along the wall and thrown to the ground, barely managing to catch himself with his bound hands before he smashed headfirst against the rock. Straightening until he was kneeling, he looked around the cave.

It was full of men, coming and going from small openings all along the walls. One small group was headed directly for him, and there was something in the leading man's gaze that sent shivers down his spine.

"So, you did manage to catch him," he purred, rubbing his hands together in obvious delight. "Were you seen?" One of the men who'd brought him to the cave shook his head. "Then leave us."

They backed away a respectful distance, leaving Aramis alone with the man. "Do you know who I am?" he asked quietly.

Aramis shook his head, feeling the gag cutting into the corners of his mouth, and his captor made a tsking sound. One hand reached out and yanked the foul material from between his teeth. He gasped, trying to reclaim the air he'd been denied during the journey.

"My name is Antoine Soulier."

Aramis realized he was looking into the eyes of the man who had almost killed him before his angel had saved him.

But the time of angels had passed.

His heart sank in his chest, but he managed a charming smile. "It's so wonderful to meet you at last."

Soulier's answering smile was callous and cruel, and for a moment Aramis was amazed at the difference between this man's coldness and Loki's. Loki's sneers were formidable, but he had never once seemed malevolent. Not to Aramis.

But Soulier was a different manner of man entirely. "I love what you've done with the place," Aramis added conversationally. He didn't see Soulier move, but a moment later he was sprawled on his side, head ringing from the force of the blow.

Soulier crouched down before him. "Are we playing a game? I do so love games," he said, and the torchlight glittered off his perfect teeth. "Let's play a question game. If I like your answer, I'll ask another. If I don't…" He trailed off, and the threat was obvious.

Aramis levered himself back to his knees. "Ask away," he said cheekily. This time he was prepared for the blow.

Soulier turned his back for a moment as if thinking. Suddenly he whirled back, face twisted into something resembling madness. "How are you alive?" he snarled. "I shot you myself."

Aramis smiled bitterly, blood from his split lip trickling down his chin. "I had a guardian angel."

Soulier regarded him dispassionately, earlier madness gone. "Well, they won't be saving you now."

"No, he won't," Aramis said very softly.

Soulier turned away briefly, calling an order to a group across the room. He closed his eyes, leaning back on his heels. He hoped no one would come. Without Loki's magic, his brothers could never hope to overcome the odds they would face if they mounted a rescue. Better he die here alone than they die with him.

Footsteps approaching jarred him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes to see Soulier approaching, a long knife in his hand.

"I should warn you now, I won't tell you anything," Aramis said, voice calm despite the apprehension hammering at his heart even as two thugs stepped up to hold him in place.

Soulier smiled grimly. "This was never about information," he said, crouching before Aramis and setting the blade of the knife against his cheek. "Your friend shot me." With his free hand, he pulled down the neckline of his shirt, revealing a fresh, ugly scar barely an inch above his heart.

Aramis spared a moment to be proud of Athos's marksmanship, and then Soulier was dragging the blade down his cheek and the pain drowned every other thought.

"No, I'm afraid this is only about revenge."

As his skin split beneath the sharp steel, Aramis sent up a fervent prayer to the stars.

_Please don't let them come._

* * *

**AN: They both ruin me in this chapter, in their own unique way. Loki with his terrible fixation on the crown, and Aramis with his wonderful fixation on the boys. Also, _damn Soulier. _- K**

**OH MY GOD ARE WE HERE ALREADY I FORGOT HOW ANGSTY THIS WAS K WHY DID YOU LET ME WRITE THIS? - L**


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: ****I was replaying Dante's Inferno the other day and this quote came up on a loading screen; it struck me quite particularly and completely changed how this scene was going to go. Gone was the Loki who might shed his immortal soul for a mere human, and long live the Loki who smites all who stand in his way! Prepare to kneel, mortals. - K**

**The final scene in this chapter may be my favorite thing you have ever written, my dear. - L**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

"Forget your hope of ever seeing Heaven:  
I come to lead you to the other shore,  
to the eternal dark, to fire and frost."  
- Dante Alighieri, '_Inferno_'

* * *

"No one is coming, you have to accept that."

Loki's hissed words sailed through the clearing and seemed to strike Thor so much that he flinched, taking a step back. He didn't know why Thor was so surprised; Loki had always known that their father would make no effort to rescue them.

He had said so the last time Thor had gotten them both into trouble, when they had been trapped against impossible odds and Odin's wrath had rained upon their enemies before raining on Loki himself.

It had been Thor's fault, that time, but Loki had taken the blame, as he always did whether he wanted to or not – for Loki was the Trickster.

Unworthy, not to be trusted.

This ridiculous trip to Midgard had been Thor's idea, too, but Loki hadn't been about to let his foolish brother thunder around on the mortal planet and get himself lost.

Instead, they had both gotten lost, lost amidst a group of men who used sentiment like a shield, not a punishment.

Well, Loki had found exactly what he had been looking for, and it was the way home.

He was sure it was.

"Stand in the rune, Thor," he ordered distractedly, basking in Yggdrasil's thick streams of pure power. There must have been a visitation here once, many centuries ago if the scuffed marks and stored magic were any indication.

There was the connection to the Bifrost; he just had to tug on it.

"No."

Loki froze, and looked up from the swirling pattern in the grass – so very similar to the one on his leather sheath – and saw Thor standing deliberately outside the circle.

"No?"

"I will not return to Asgard, brother."

The ridiculous sentiment that had been flourishing under Aramis' misplaced ministrations suddenly turned into anger. It _hurt, _because that was what emotion did, and Thor was letting his get in the way of _reason._

"Do not be a fool, Thor," he snapped, "What is on offer here?"

Thor's jaw clenched and when he looked up to meet Loki's enraged gaze, it was as if he thought that Loki was wrong. It occurred to him like a punch to the gut that, for the first time in their long lives, Thor was about to stand up to him.

"I do not want to be King, Loki. Being here, it's shown me that I have no desire to rule, to put myself above anyone else. I just want to _live,_" he trailed off quietly, "I just want to be happy."

Loki blinked in utter amazement. That was what they had been bred to do, to sit at the foot of the golden throne until it was their time to rule. What could possibly have distracted Thor enough to forget that reason for living?

"Whatever those simpletons have told you-"

"Do not refer to them as such," Thor shouted, stunning Loki into silence. "The Musketeers are honourable, praiseworthymen; they fight for their country and are fought for in return. The life is fun, dangerous, _worthy, _and I can already not give that up."

He watched his brother for a moment, and then he began to laugh, low and cruel, for thiswas what _sentiment _did to a person. It made them stupid; it made them forget their place in the cosmos.

"You _care _for them, don't you? Oh, Thor, this is too rich."

Thor flinched, the faintest of flushes appearing on his cheeks. "They are worth caring for."

Loki sneered, like the rightful ruler that he was, and he emulated every single quality that their father had tried to instil in him. Thor stiffened and shook his head almost desperately, but it was too late, Loki would not be quieted.

"I will _not _be commanded by mere mortals, I am a _prince,_" he yelled, pointing at himself furiously, and then snarled at the light still flickering at his fingertips. Here, alone with Thor, he could fully be himself. "I had to hide half of my _soul _since we landed on this disgusting mortal planet. We don't belonghere."

"You think we belong up there, Loki?" Thor asked suddenly, shocking him with its earnest questioning. "You had to hide your magic in Asgard, too. How often did you run away, try to practice your magic secretly because you knew using it would anger Father?"

Loki inhaled sharply and automatically shuttered his power. Even the mere mention of being discovered was enough to bring apprehension clutching at his chest.

"And now look, look at you," Thor laughed in fond surprise, and it was with proud amazement he said, "You saved a man who you can't seem to stand, and you saved another who adores you."

_Adores?_

The overwhelming anger settled and it caught at his breath, made hesitation quiver along bones that had lived for so very long. But there, Yggdrasil whispered to him, ran soothing waves of power along his skin and replaced every single soft touch of a charming mortal that _had no right._

"That is the exact reason we can't stay, Thor. This," he let his magic course through him again and gestured to the rune circle when it flared back in greeting, "This is our birthright." The one that their Father had seemed to love in Thor and hate in him, but that didn't matter, because Midgard was no place for gods. "We're immortal."

Thor swallowed nervously, and then he strengthened when he touched a belt that Loki could have sworn belonged to Porthos. "Yes but, brother, we don't have to be."

Loki stumbled backwards out of the rune as if Thor had smacked him with the hammer he was born to wield. It took him a few seconds of careful breathing before he asked in bewilderment, "You would give up millennia of ruling our kingdom, for scant years with mortals you just met?"

Thor's smile was devastatingly shy. "A year with them is worth a lifetime, Loki, how can you not see that?"

"How? _How? _Because we were meant for greater things; Thor, all we've ever known is heritage."

"And I don't want it. What is heritage compared to companionship, to _brothers?_" Thor said and then pointed at the camp that they had left far behind. "They accept you, Aramis stands by you, and you're throwing that away, for what? A cold throne and a colder heart? That is not what life is about, brother."

On an instinct that he hadn't realised he kept following, he reached out with his magic for a blinding white fire that had burned so agreeably from the moment he had first encountered it. He reached for the tell-tale signature of a brown-eyed man who managed to make him feel _warm._

Only Yggdrasil spoke back, enticing him back into the rune circle, telling him that _power _was always greater than sentiment.

He frowned and walked forwards, his boots glowing where they met the patterned floor.

Thor's face crumpled. "Please, Loki, don't do this. I don't want you to go… Loki?"

He wasn't listening; he had stepped past the ring of swirling marks that reminded him so much of Aramis' shoulder-guard. He wasn't using his physical senses; he was casting out with his magic again.

In his mind's eye, he felt Athos' steel, Porthos' protection, d'Artagnan's enthusiasm.

There was no fire.

"Aramis," he murmured, and focused on the vulnerable planes on his brother's face. "Aramis has gone."

Thor grabbed his arm bruisingly, and his alarm seemed to finally jolt through to Loki. "We didn't leave a guard."

_No, _he thought numbly, _**I**__ didn't leave a guard._

He bolted, he ran away from the path to Asgard, and he ran towards the absence of a fire that he hadn't realised he had come to rely on so much.

Without it, he shivered uncontrollably; he who had not felt the cold since his youth.

He fell into the circle of the camp's firelight and saw Athos and d'Artagnan turn vigilantly with their swords drawn. Anxiety was a skittering thing in the air.

D'Artagnan sighed in relief, "Loki, thank God you're okay, where's Thor?"

Thor crashed through the trees behind him, but Loki paid no mind to his brother's lumbering, there was only one question on his mind. "Where is Aramis?"

That was when he realised that Athos' skin was stretched tight over his face, pinched and pale. If guilt had a tangible presence, it would be pouring off of the man in such heavy waves that it was crippling.

He knew what it felt like, because it was hovering on the edges of his own awareness.

"Tell me," he snapped, and Athos jerked his head in a nod at d'Artagnan.

The boy stepped forward, passing Loki a dagger with a crest engraved on the hilt that he recognised.

"Soulier's," he said dully, "He took Aramis. Why?"

He felt as disconnected from the world as he had on the first day they had arrived here. But it wasn't Asgard he felt adrift from now, it was Aramis, and it _ached _like a lost limb_._

"Revenge," Athos murmured in the same toneless fashion, "He wants to finish what he started."

D'Artagnan frowned nervously even as he gravitated to Thor's side. "What makes you think he's going to kill-"

Athos released his bloodless hold on a bundle of leather straps attached to his belt. Loki reached out automatically, but he already knew what it was before Athos brandished the front.

It was Aramis' shoulder guard, but it was sliced almost to ribbons, with one thick cut straight through the centre of the significant flower symbol of the Musketeers.

"That's where you found the dagger," he said quietly, his brain taking so very long to work things through, but some things came in bits and pieces.

Sentiment, acceptance, trust, _worthiness._

They had trusted him, trusted him to keep them safe.

And he had left them alone, without a watcher, all for his own needs. His father was right; he deserved nothing more than to be the heir's brother, the unwanted son, the Trickster.

That was all he was good for. He deserved to go back to Asgard, to sit at the foot of the lonely throne and _feel _how cold it was without Aramis' fire to warm him, without brothers to rely on.

The crownless prince is all he ever was.

And yet, all he could think of was their last conversation, when he had told Aramis to run back to Porthos. A great, sickening weight settled in his stomach.

Aramis would think that he had left them all there to die, left _him _at Soulier's mercy.

There was movement outside the circle of firelight, and then Porthos appeared with despairing rage tightening his dark features. Porthos took one look at Thor, a relieved sigh shuddering through him, and then rammed his fist into Loki's jaw until he saw the stars he came from.

"What are you still _doing _here?" Porthos roared, and Loki merely rubbed the bruise and sneered. It was a learned response; he knew how to react to this, even if it was just a facsimile of emotion.

"I wasn't aware you required babysitting."

"Not me, you stupid fucking god," Porthos yelled, derision slapping Loki in the face, "Aramis _needs _you."

"Me?" Loki shouted, the emotion coming true this time and it was hot and angry and burned away the cold, uncaring of the ache in his jaw or the needles in his heart, "Needs _me? _I'm not the one he keeps returning to!"

Porthos' raised his fist again, and snarled in useless rage when Thor's hand shot out to stop Porthos from punching him a second time.

Loki gave his brother a satisfied look, but then he saw something that he had never thought to see.

Thor was furious with him.

"How can you be so _blind_, brother?"

Loki took a step back, and that little quivering of hesitation that had almost kept him from leaving Midgard, reared its head.

Something wasn't right, Thor was _angry _with him, Athos was unbearably guilty, and Porthos looked terrified underneath his rage.

He was missing something.

Raw emotion screamed across Porthos' face as he said hoarsely, "You're his angel."

A choked noise left Loki's lips.

Every single moment that he had shared with Aramis flashed in front of his eyes, every time he had burned with curiosity at those two words that had been spoken in that ridiculously attractive tongue.

_Mon ange._

"Aramis," he whispered, and his magic surged like a wave that had finally broken.

Aramis, the one person who had tracked fire along his skin, interested him like nothing before had ever done, saw his magic as a wonderful skill and not an obligation, made him _feel_… Made him feel and not mocked him for feeling.

There was borrowed power under his skin, he had absorbed centuries of the Bifrost's energy until it sizzled under his skin.

It would have taken him home.

Instead, he was going to use it to destroy Soulier and bring Aramis home.

He cast far and wide, reaching out further than he ever had before, and focused like a needle point onto the faintest flickers of glorious white fire. He knew instantly where Aramis was.

"I lost the trail, I can't _find _him, Athos," Porthos' voice was breaking and he looked seconds away from collapsing with exhaustion, his arm quivering against Thor's as he leaned on him for strength.

But Athos wasn't watching Porthos, he was watching Loki, and there was such bitter, heart-breaking understanding in the man's anguished eyes.

He had gotten so good at reading these ridiculous mortals.

_Go, _Athos said, _bring him back to us._

It was a command that no other mortal could make and live, but Loki would follow it to the end. Soulier would hurt for taking a light as bright as Aramis', and Soulier would die for taking it from _him_.

With one last look at the men that Thor had chosen, Loki focused on that glorious fire and ran.

Athos had said something else, but Loki was sure that he hadn't read it correctly.

It had looked like, _come home._

* * *

"What are you doing?" Porthos roared from Thor's arms, straining to free himself from a god whose face echoed the desperate question.

Athos trembled. They couldn't hate him anymore than he already hated himself.

This was his fault, all of this lay upon his shoulders, for he had been the one to shoot Soulier – shoot him and not ensure that the manipulative bastard was dead.

But Loki would not make that mistake, he never would. The god that was meant to stand for tricks was so easy to read in Athos' accustomed eyes. He had lived embroiled in lies for so long, he had shared a bed with evil and tried to break its neck.

He had failed then, too, and Loki was neither evil nor a failure.

"Because he needs to do this," he said forcefully, and then took a deep breath to say quietly, "And he will."

Porthos was too used to his unflinching command, and immediately sagged against Thor. When the blonde man inexplicably stiffened, wariness narrowing his eyes, Porthos pushed his face into Thor's neck to offer reassurance.

D'Artagnan started a little at his side, but Athos merely waited, knowing that Thor would want an explanation – he owed him that much, at least. He had promised him patience, but he had promised him safety, too.

Thor had relaxed a little, one arm coming up to go around Porthos' shoulders, but he still stared cautiously at Athos. "You barely know my brother, and all you do know is his magic and his cutting tongue; how can you trust him?"

He felt himself smile and knew that it was like the slash across his heart, the cut through Aramis' shoulder guard, and the myriad of slices and rope burns that had taken away so many of their loved ones over the years.

Loki would not let something so _mortal _take Aramis away from him.

"I know that Aramis loves him, and I trust that Loki loves him, too."

Thor's face softened then, and he nodded to Athos as he rested his cheek against Porthos head.

For they all knew that Loki would tear down mountains to rescue Aramis.

And he could.

* * *

_Hiss._

The first death lit the spark.

There was a fuse in Loki's chest, and it finally lit when he approached the cliff face to find a scout napping in the trees.

His neck had broken like a twig, which was exactly what the other men heard as they ranged about the clearing, guarding their lair with an anxious vigilance.

But they were looking for mortals intent on rescue, and he was a god with a taste for revenge.

_Hiss._

The fuse lay within him, sinister and hushed like a snake, and in its mouth would be Aramis, kept safe by his fangs. The line of gunpowder sizzled at one end, and every death made the flame flare brighter.

Not as bright as Aramis' glorious burning, but that white light was flickering, fading in a wind that he couldn't see. Someone was trying to put his fire out.

Soulier.

Hot, venomous rage surged through his veins and it _longed _for Soulier's blood. Loki entered the mouth of the dark cave and knew from the echoing clicks that he was being watched, he was expected.

They expected a fight, but that would imply that they could win.

"Show yer hands!"

Loki allowed himself a smile, the most derisive of curls to his lip as he raised his arms to his head, palms forwards. His magic simmered beneath his skin, still sparkling with borrowed power, desperate to get out. He turned his hands inwards and very slowly curled his fingers.

_Hiss._

Light exploded in sunbursts like notes on a sheet of music, and the screams were the melody.

He saw in flashes; guns backfired on their wielders, dark spots spattered the lit stone walls, and Aramis' fire strengthened and dimmed.

Someone shot blindly towards him and Loki didn't stop in his stride to throw up a palm and send the bullet back on a fatal path to its sender.

Inside the raging void that tore at his chest were corpses, darkness, and emptiness. Somewhere ahead of him was the man who embodied the opposite of that, he was fire, light, and _life. _He was a beacon to a god that knew only the cold.

Loki was no angel, the blackness of his heart was testament to that, but he would not let Aramis find his wings, either.

When Aramis' white fire flickered again, Loki knew that he would fly Soulier into the depths of Helheim himself, even if it meant that he would never return.

Aramis was in the next tunnel, and all that mattered was his safety.

He stormed on in a whirlwind of gunpowder, manipulating it like an ashy cloud that bent to his whim. He flung some of it into the nearest torches, using the smoke and flashes to conceal his entrance and find what his heart was screaming for.

The snake stilled its wary waving, and then its hood spread with a baring of fangs.

Aramis kneeled on the floor and there wasn't a single area of tan skin uncovered by blood or bruising. His head was tipped forward and his brown curls were matted and sweaty. Pressed to his temple was a pistol, and holding that pistol was a man who suddenly looked as if he stared into death.

He did.

The fuse had reached its end.

Loki exploded, pressure forcing outwards to crash into the walls and through them, arcing outwards like a bomb until it hit every figure that lay in wait; every figure, except Aramis, who knelt untouched and unaware amidst the destruction.

The man who held the gun fell backwards, his body jerking in mid-air when Loki reached out and held him steady from across the distance, his power tangible as he held the man who had threatened Aramis' white fire.

_Hiss._

There was a squeak, a muffled cry, a desperate whine of mercy, and then Loki ripped knowledge from the man's head so viciously that blood sprayed.

He now knew with a deadly certainty that Soulier had run and left Aramis to die.

The nameless body and gun disintegrated into dust, mingling with the gunpowder tornado and spent fuse until Loki dropped everything to fall to his knees at Aramis' front.

"Aramis," he whispered with an excruciating tightness in his chest as he reached out with gentle fingers. There was nowhere he dared touch without fear of hurting him, so he calmed the raging storm inside and fed it gently against Aramis' neck.

It wasn't enough, Aramis didn't stir.

Panic gripped him and he lowered the dam. Magic thundered through him and Aramis jerked upright with a wordless cry. The wounds disappeared as Loki watched, so many wounds that made him sick.

Swollen eyes, puffy cheeks, numerous cuts and burns, faded away to reveal the tender-hearted man he knew.

Still the magic surged, finding more things to heal, and Loki shuddered at how _close _he had come to losing him. He couldn't heal death, even if he embodied it.

A gush of blood from Aramis' stomach finally ceased, the cause a stab from a sword that would have slowly killed him. Aramis took a breath and it sounded wet, a red bubble bursting on his lips as a punctured lung closed and pumped easily again.

Dazed brown eyes opened and a tiny smile curved those outrageously sensual lips. "_Mon ange_, you came_._"

It hit him like a sliver of ice driven deep into his black heart.

Aramis truly had thought that he would leave him.

He almost had.

"Aramis," he said quietly, but command laced his words, "Your god does not bid you die, today."

There was the tiniest of laughs, a stirring of breath more than anything else, and Loki could take a breath. Relief replaced the fury inside of him, but his dire magic simply retreated for now. It was waiting for the bloody end, for the sweet tang of revenge.

The snake was a patient hunter.

Aramis shivered, a faint trembling against Loki's hand, and he immediately pulled back to swing his cloak around Aramis' shoulders – a space that looked so very bare without his shoulder-guard.

Aramis exhaled softly and, when he looked up at Loki again, there was steely awareness in his eyes, as if he had taken the same strength that Loki usually did from the piece of green cloth that now flowed so gracefully down the Musketeer's back.

"That looks good on you," he said, a low note to his voice that rang with intensity as well as surprise.

Aramis flashed him a smile, and Loki hadn't realised how desperately he had wanted to see it. "Of course it does, it's yours."

Of course it did.

Aramis swayed slightly as he stood, and Loki immediately reached out a hand to cup his neck and slide more magic into him. For a moment he thought that he saw golden light flicker in waves under Aramis' skin, but then it was gone and only dazed brown eyes had his attention.

"I need to find Soulier," he said, even as his palm still lingered over surprisingly smooth facial hair.

"I know," Aramis murmured, and seemed loath to move, sighing when Loki ran a curious thumb over his cheek. The tan skin was warm like the fire it contained within, and it was addictive to touch.

Aramis flinched at a faint explosion and reached for weapons that weren't there.

He was defenceless, but Loki wasn't. He unhooked his sheath with his spare hand and passed it over, their fingers brushing momentarily. "Take this, find your things."

Everyone else was dead, Aramis had free reign of the caves behind them.

The belt was too tight for Aramis' toned hips, but when he had lengthened it, it looked as if it belonged there. Of course it did. With a soft swoosh of golden metal on patterned leather, Singasverd danced in Aramis' hand, a rhythmic glittering movement as he loosened his muscles.

It was… mesmerising.

Aramis shifted then, and Loki was acutely aware that the man was offering him comfort even as he was seeking it. A tan hand closed over his and Aramis brushed a kiss against his paler fingertips.

Outside of his rage, heat bloomed, it tried to calm the gaping void of vicious fury, but it couldn't get in.

Loki wouldn't let it; he had something to do, first.

He lowered his hand slowly, unwilling to put more concern on Aramis' handsome face, and then he turned away to search for the swine who had put the pain there.

Soulier knew nothing of pain, nothing of _torture. _

Loki had lived a thousand years, and he was well-versed in the shadows of blood.

The crownless prince knew the methods that the golden king could not have a hand in, and without Aramis' white fire by his side, the black frost reigned once more.

Soulier's laboured breaths echoed off of the stone walls and spiked the pulse of Loki's dark heart. He was crawling up a rope when Loki found him, edging closer to a hole that would take him out of the cave.

He watched him struggle for a moment, and as Soulier reached up for the penultimate hand hold, he flicked his finger and sliced the rope from its binding.

It fell, coiling on the floor like a coldblooded snake that readied to strike.

Soulier swore with vitriol and then looked up with almost comic slowness. Loki tilted his head to the side, observing the man who had brought them such grief, the man who would hurt for his crimes and now knelt on the floor at his feet.

"Who are you?" Soulier snapped, but it was belied by the faint quaver in his voice.

Loki smiled, the scent of blood was heady in his nose and his prey was run to the ground with nowhere to go. Soulier paled, an instinctual fear telling him that he should run from the abyssal-eyed being.

Light glowed around him as he hissed, "I am the angel of death, you mewling quim." Soulier scrambled up to draw a sword wet with Aramis' blood, and Loki laughed low and viciously.

His magic came like poison, slow and powerful, and it streamed from his outflung fingers in shadowy ropes. They passed through Soulier's flesh and for a taut, sinister moment, nothing happened.

Then Soulier began to scream.

Bruises, cuts, and sores flared into existence on his skin before Loki healed them and started again. Each blow that he had seen on Aramis, every wound both fatal and superficial, he inflicted and healed and inflicted and healed until Soulier's noises were gurgled cries as blood filled and drained from his lungs.

As Soulier writhed on the floor, Loki drew the dagger that had once pierced Aramis' shoulder-guard, and would now pierce Soulier's stomach in the exact same place that he had stabbed Aramis.

It was fitting, so very fitting, and yet it wasn't enough.

The fuse had gone out, his fire elsewhere, and he was lost in the hot rage of hatred.

It wasn't true heat, but the emotion was real, and it hurt. He hurt for Thor who never believed he was fit to rule, he hurt for Athos who thought himself a failure, he hurt for Porthos who cared too much, and he hurt for d'Artagnan who had so much pain left to experience.

He hurt for Aramis, who he had rejected time and time again and yet still stayed by his side and offered him his warmth.

And lastly, he hurt for himself, for the boy he had been and the man he had become who had always known that he was not worthy of such warmth.

A gentle palm on his shoulder that managed to soothe the venomous blizzard inside of him, and he shuddered under that sincere offer of genuine comfort. The sentiment was so very overpowering now, but he didn't want it, he had to ensure that Soulier suffered.

There was only one man who evoked such a strong reaction in him and yet somehow never set off his alarms.

He kept his eye on Soulier but slightly loosened the black bindings to snarl, "I won't let him live for taking you from me."

Aramis appeared at his side, Aramis who had known how to coax him from the very beginning, touched his jaw to pull his face around. Loki dragged his eyes from the man who made him feel hurt, and he looked at the man who made him feel joy.

There were no walls for him to hide behind now, no secrets or lies or tricks. He let Aramis see into the inky depths of his soul, let him see his ragged edges, because this was who he was.

He was not worthy.

And yet, slowly, so very slowly, Aramis was filling the worthless void of his soul with white fire.

"He is not worthy of your attention, _mon ange._"

Loki stilled at that word, under the depth of adoration in it, at the _acceptance_ he saw in those mortal brown eyes, and murmured, "No, _he _is not."

He released Soulier, left him sputtering on the floor but very much alive, thanks to Aramis' generosity, and laced the fingers of his right hand with Aramis' left as they prepared to leave the room of screams.

There was a choking noise to their side, and then they heard a rasping, "Musketeer _whore-_"

_Hiss._

Loki whirled and, with his free hand, shot Soulier with the pistol that Aramis had given him. He did it without magic and, judging from the burst of pride on Aramis' face, it was the best shot that he had ever made.

He looked to Aramis then, completely unashamed for ending the life of a cretin who thought himself better than gallant Aramis, who had brought Loki from an edge he wasn't sure he would have ever returned from.

He had so nearly become the emotionless prince that he had been bred to be, and the darkness still loomed with fangs that dripped poison.

There was the softest of pressures against his lips, and yet it burned so sweetly against the darkness. Aramis' kiss spoke of gratitude, and love, and a fire that cocooned the slowly lightening depths of his soul.

The snake settled down to sleep, soothed by a mortal's touch.

When Aramis pulled him away with an encouraging smile, Loki walked from the shadows and into the light, at the left hand of a man who should have been a god.

* * *

**AN: Aaaaaand take a breath, the smiting has passed. So much symbolism that I'm basically Wikipedia. Liked it? Hate us? Love them? LET US KNOW, please write us a review! - K**

**^Ideally the smiting would never pass, but sadly we'll run out of good names for bad guys before Loki runs out of anger and wrath. - L**

**(Update: we've run out of good names for bad guys. Any suggestions?)**


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: Aramis learns that it's possible to have too much of a good thing, and Loki learns that one man's good thing is his worst nightmare - and there's already one too many of those. - K**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

Athos felt numb. The guilt had seeped into his blood and bones like poison, paralyzing him where he stood by the edge of the forest, still dully clutching Aramis's slashed shoulder guard. How could he have been so stupid?

He knew he should be moving, making decisions, preparing for attack in case some of the enemy returned before Loki, but he could not open his mouth to speak. Authority had deserted him, and so he stood, numb and silent, watching his companions.

By the fire, Porthos's rage had burned itself out. He sat utterly still, dark eyes staring over Athos's shoulder in the direction Loki had taken. Athos couldn't be certain, but he though his lips might be moving in prayer.

D'Artagnan was pacing the edge of the clearing, frustrated desperation rolling off of him with every step. His hand jumped from his sword to his pistol every few seconds, as if unable to choose.

Thor was whirling his hammer in loose circles, the tension in his shoulders telling Athos he was minutes away from going after his brother, orders be damned. There was an air of silent expectation in the clearing, and no one wanted to be the first to break it.

"It's been too long!" Thor boomed suddenly, cracking the silence like a musket shot. "We should go after them." By the fire, Porthos flinched at the unexpected noise, but his eyes never left the trees.

Athos could feel D'Artagnan watching him, obviously hoping he would agree, but he shook his head. "No," he said firmly, finding his voice at last. To his relief, it did not break. "We will wait."

"For how long?" Thor demanded.

"We must trust Loki to bring him back," Athos said simply.

Thor grimaced and looked away. "I trust my brother. But I do not trust Soulier. We must go after them ourselves!"

"We will stay until they return," he repeated.

He could sense Thor's desperation before he spoke again, words that cut through Athos's numbness like daggers. "It's your fault that Soulier's not dead. Why do you not want to finish this?"

"I would only hinder Loki," he replied quietly, trying to hide the damage those words had done. "We must be here when he returns so that he can find us."

Thor opened his mouth to say more, but he was cut off by a sharp, "Enough!" Porthos glanced over from the fire, eyes glinting in the light. "He'll bring him back. End of discussion."

Perhaps it was the ragged edge in Porthos's voice, but Thor stilled, sheepishly meeting Athos's eyes in silent apology. Athos nodded, the motion difficult with the guilt creeping through him once more. If Loki did not save Aramis…

No. He had seen it in his eyes when he left. Loki would not fail.

A noise from the forest behind him had him whirling around, hands clenching on the ruined leather. He heard Porthos leap to his feet as his eyes bored into the trees, trying to see what was coming. If an enemy attacked now, they would all be slaughtered where they stood, but no one moved for cover, drowning in the faint hope that their prayers were being answered.

And then the firelight was gleaming against golden armor stained red, an oncoming storm of blood and horror that made Athos want to cry out in relief, but he didn't, not yet, for he could not yet see Aramis beyond Loki's furious presence.

His knees went weak with relief when his eyes found Aramis at last, half a step behind Loki and covered in dried blood but smiling cheerfully at them all. Loki's green cloak was slung about his shoulders like a shield.

Athos heard Porthos moving, but to his own surprise he beat him to it, crushing Aramis in a hug that sent the slighter man staggering back half a pace before he recovered enough to return the embrace.

"Thank God," he mumbled against Aramis's shoulder, too relieved to care about the display of emotion.

"It wasn't God this time," Aramis murmured back, and Athos knew without looking that his eyes had flicked to Loki, who had stalked into the clearing, followed by a wildly grinning Thor.

Then a hand landed heavily on the back of Athos's shirt and hauled him away. Athos went willingly, stepping aside before Porthos crushed him in his haste to reach Aramis. D'Artagnan crashed into them both a moment later, his hand darting out to pull Athos back into the mad crush.

At last they broke apart, Porthos lingering a moment longer as if to reassure himself that Aramis was really present and uninjured. Then he too stepped back. Thor came up beside him and put an arm around his shoulders, and Porthos sagged against him, his face a picture of relief.

Then, as one, everyone but Aramis turned to Loki, standing near the fire and cleaning the blood from his sword.

"You did it," D'Artagnan said, his voice high with awe. Porthos shook his head, clearly beyond words. Athos knew he was not yet ready to thank Loki for all he had done, so he turned back to Aramis, intent to leave this cursed place as soon as possible.

Aramis was standing very still, a queer look on his face. He had one hand pressed against his stomach. "Loki!" Athos called, taking a step towards Aramis. "Why haven't you healed him?"

"I did," Loki said distractedly, scraping grime from his sword. Porthos had taken a step away from Thor, concerned eyes flicking back to Aramis in confusion.

Athos turned back to Aramis, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, when Aramis's whole body suddenly hitched. Gripped by instinct, Athos darted forward and caught his friend before he could hit the ground.

"Aramis!" Porthos's voice was panicked as he dropped to his knees beside them, strong hands pulling Aramis from Athos's grasp to rest in his lap.

Loki followed a heartbeat later, angry mask vanishing in the face of the pressing concern. "Hang on," he murmured, placing a gentle hand against Aramis's neck. A soft white light suffused the clearing, sending waves of energy Athos could feel to his very core.

Aramis groaned, trying to jerk away from Loki's hand. Frowning, Loki increased the light until it was nearly blinding, but Aramis spasmed beneath his hand and Porthos knocked him away.

"What the hell are you doing, you're makin' it worse!" he shouted, cradling Aramis protectively. The smaller Musketeer's eyes were barely open as he tried to curl in on himself, hand still pressed to his stomach.

"I don't understand," Loki cried desperately. "Why won't he take it, _why won't he accept my magic?_" He reached out again, hand glowing, but Aramis jerked the moment the light touched him and Loki pulled back.

He lifted his eyes to gaze at Athos, looking lost. Athos realized that for the first time since he'd met him, Loki looked truly frightened. He was floundering, a plea for help in his eyes that he would never voice out loud.

So Athos did what he always did: began issuing commands. "Loki, stop immediately. Clearly something is not right." Loki pulled back, the light going out as he stared at Athos with desperate hope, seeking guidance.

Athos stared steadily back. He had Loki's full attention and no idea what to do with a god who couldn't heal the man he loved.

Taking a deep breath, Athos looked at Porthos. "Get that shirt off him. We can't even see what we're dealing with." Porthos nodded, carefully pulling the bloodstained fabric from Aramis's trembling form.

"D'Artagnan, fetch some water _now_." The lad nodded and raced away into the woods with every water skin he could carry. "Thor, fetch the medical supplies from Aramis's pack."

"Athos!" Porthos shouted uncertainly, drawing his attention back to Aramis. He and Loki were staring wide eyed at Aramis's stomach, where golden light was flickering in waves beneath the skin. Even as Athos watched, the light flared brighter and Aramis groaned again.

"What the hell is that?" Porthos asked, turning frantic eyes on Loki, who was staring at the light in fascinated horror.

Athos put a hand on Loki's shoulder, drawing him from his reverie. "I think-" Loki swallowed nervously. "I think it's my magic."

"What is it doing there?" Porthos demanded.

Loki didn't even react to the belligerent tone. "His wounds were too terrible to survive, so I healed them all at once. But maybe mortals can't contain so much magic. His body is rejecting it."

"Are you saying your magic is poisoning him?" Athos asked quietly, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head insisting he give in to panic.

Loki's eyes met his, full of guilt. "Yes."

"Then get it out!" Porthos yelled, trying to keep Aramis's hands away from the glowing skin.

"I can't! It's within him! Using more magic to get it out would only make it worse. It needs to drain naturally."

"So cut it out," Porthos growled, and Athos knew from the look of horror on Loki's face that it was their only chance. He yanked his main gauche from his belt and pressed it to Loki's hand.

"Porthos, hold him down," he ordered as Loki leaned over Aramis's trembling form. Aramis's eyes were closed, but Athos guessed he was still conscious.

Loki hesitated, holding the dagger uncertainly above the swirling light. "What are you waiting for?" Porthos ground out, trying to pin Aramis's shoulders to the dirt.

Loki looked at Athos, raw vulnerability shining in his too wide emerald eyes. "I can't hurt him again," he said softly, shame roughening his voice.

Before Athos could react, Porthos shoved bodily into Loki, knocking him aside and snatching the dagger. "He's dying! Get the hell out of my way!"

Athos crowded forward to pin Aramis down while Porthos placed one hand on Aramis's stomach, holding the dagger steady with the other. Carefully, he pressed the sharp point into a place just to the left of Aramis's tense abdominal muscles, cutting just deep enough and leaving a line several inches long across the glowing skin before whipping the dagger away.

Immediately Aramis arched his back, crying out in pain as golden light seemed to bleed from the wound, mixing with the red spill of blood. After a few moments, Aramis fell back limply against the ground, eyes slipping closed as the last of the golden light vanished.

"Is that it?" Porthos asked hesitantly, dropping the main gauche as if it were burning him.

"I don't know," Loki said shakily, reaching out to touch his fingertips to Aramis's skin. Athos realized that Thor was hovering behind him with D'Artagnan. He'd never noticed them return.

"We need to get him to an inn and out of these woods," Athos said firmly into the stunned silence. Porthos nodded, reaching down to cup a hand against Aramis's head, preparing to lift him into his arms.

Suddenly he recoiled with a yelp. A smear of fresh blood was on his hand. Athos looked down and saw a cut on Aramis's cheek that he was certain had not been there earlier, deep and vicious.

"Where did that come from?" Porthos asked shakily. Athos shook his head just as Aramis groaned weakly and turned his head away, hiding the injury.

"I suppose we should just-" Athos choked to a stop, for a thin line was tracing itself down Aramis's unblemished cheek. Even as he watched, blood began to trickle from the wound.

"What the hell is happening?" Porthos demanded, grabbing for the medical supplies in Thor's hands and pressing a rag against the bleeding wound.

Loki stared down at Aramis as a third cut curled its way down the side of his neck, and Athos felt fear twist in his gut at Loki's anguished expression. Green eyes lifted to meet his own.

"His wounds are reopening," Loki whispered. "One by one. All of them."

* * *

Loki followed Porthos numbly into the small room at the inn, hating the way Aramis hung limp and bleeding in his arms. He supposed they should be grateful to have made it back so quickly, before the worst of the wounds had reopened, but he didn't. All he could feel as the knowledge that he had done this burning through his veins like wildfire, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

He should have known. He should have _known_, and instead he had blithely thrown magic at Aramis and hurried him through the woods like all was well.

It was worse when he remembered that he'd used his magic so viciously on Soulier. He didn't understand what had happened, but was it possible there was some link between the two, that using his magic so violently while still cocooning Aramis had led to this?

The thought made him gag.

Ahead of him, Porthos was about to lower Aramis to the bed when the smaller man suddenly gasped weakly. It was the first noise he'd made since before they'd crossed the rope bridge, and Loki knew that wasn't a good sign.

He ran forward and twitched aside the green cloak he'd wrapped around Aramis before they set out. Sure enough, red blood was spreading in a stain across Aramis's stomach.

Porthos swore, voice hard with anguish and exhaustion, and quickly lowered Aramis the rest of the way to the small bed, hands immediately moving to press against the deep wound.

"Can't you do something?" he asked quietly. The anger had drained from him during the long journey, left behind with Athos and Thor and D'Artagnan, who had stayed to clear the camp and check for any enemies that may have escaped Loki's wrath. There was a plea in his eyes now, and it cut deeper than his anger had.

"Not yet," Loki managed to say past the pounding in his head, reminding him this was all his fault. "He's too weak to take more than the smallest amount of magic, and I have to save it for the worst damage."

Porthos paled further, dark skin grey in the dim light. "There's worse than this?" he whispered.

Loki knew what he was thinking. As they'd hurried back down the trail, cuts had opened all across Aramis's body, spilling blood in trickles over skin that blossomed with black bruises and shiny red burns.

And all along the brilliant white light grew steadily dimmer, and Loki could not rekindle it.

He moved to the side of the bed, knowing that to give in to the despair would be to sign Aramis's death warrant. Placing the sewing kit and bandages on the small table, he carefully helped Porthos unwind the now blood-soaked cloak from Aramis's shivering form.

"We'd best sew it up, then," Porthos said, hands already red from more of Aramis's blood than Loki cared to remember. White knuckles pressed into the wound still dribbling blood all across the sheets.

Loki nodded silently and pulled out the needle and thread, rapidly preparing it. His hand shook the first time he tried to thread it and he had to remind himself not to snap the ridiculous thing in two. Aramis needed this foolish, useless treatment, or he would die.

But Loki's magic had already failed to save him, so now they must resort to mortal means rather than immortal ones.

He offered Porthos the threaded needle, but the large Musketeer shook his head, reaching for a roll of bandages. "I'll get started on the rest," he muttered bleakly, gesturing to the dozens of bleeding wounds that now decorated Aramis's too-pale skin.

Swallowing hard, Loki nodded and leaned closer, pressing the needle to the edge of the bloody slash. "Wait," Porthos said suddenly, rushing from the room. A moment later he returned, slamming the door in the face of the irate innkeeper. A bottle was clutched in his hand, and he hurriedly poured some over the wound.

"What did that accomplish?" Loki demanded, a spark of pride surging and fading in the face of the impossible situation.

"Cleans it," Porthos grunted, returning to his bandages.

Loki nodded and turned back to the bleeding wound, hesitating. He recalled the panic that had erupted deep inside him when Athos had pressed the dagger into his hand and told him to cut Aramis open.

Loki had _never_ had to cut someone open and hurt them to save them, and to his eternal shame he had frozen, traumatized by the thought of inflicting more pain on the man he had only just realized he needed more than air.

Willing his hand not to tremble, Loki began, sliding the needle in and out of Aramis's flesh, grateful the man was not awake for this. The wound was not long, but it was deep, and Loki could only hope Aramis stopped rejecting his magic before it proved fatal.

He'd only just finished tying off the last stitch when Aramis shuddered beneath him, his breathing hitching frantically as he tried to get air into a lung that had just collapsed. The white light flared and dimmed.

"_Swina bqllr!_" Loki swore, knocking Porthos aside to jam a hand against Aramis's heaving chest. _Please let this work_, he thought desperately, letting a tiny amount of magic slip through his palm and into Aramis, draining the blood from his lung.

Slowly, he wove his magic in threads through Aramis's damaged lung, strengthening the muscle and repairing as much of the damage as he could without fear of Aramis rejecting it once more.

He breathed out a hissing sigh of relief as he withdrew, confident that the punctured lung at least would not cause further trouble as long as Aramis was kept still and calm. Loki had placed only a single stitch over a gaping wound: it would hold only so long as it was not disturbed.

His hands trembled again as he sat back, this time with exhaustion. What magic he had saved from the Bifrost rune was long vanished, used up in the caves and then again at the campsite.

He'd even tapped into his own reserves to give Porthos the strength to reach the inn. Loki should have insisted Thor accompany him instead, but Porthos had refused point blank to be separated from Aramis. So he had fed the man strength enough to maintain a rapid pace through the woods, desperate to reach the inn.

After what seemed like hours, Porthos sat back too, shaking hands dropping the remaining bandages onto the table.

"That's the best I can do," he said miserably. "Aramis is the doctor, not me."

Loki eyed the mass of white bandages wound around Aramis's torso and arms. Thankfully the cuts on his face had stopped bleeding. Ordinarily most of the wounds would have needed stitches, but they both knew that Aramis would be dead before that would be an issue if his body did not stop rejecting Loki's magic.

The rejection ached like a phantom hand gripping Loki's heart. He had never healed such grievous wounds before, it was true, but why did Aramis refuse the healing magic? He could not make sense of it, and an insidious part of his mind that spoke with his father's voice told Loki it was a rejection of _him_.

Porthos set aside the water he'd been trying to coax Aramis into drinking and rose unsteadily, drawing him from his thoughts. "I'd better go and placate the innkeeper," he said reluctantly. "Gotta talk him into givin' us some more rooms."

Loki blinked at him blankly before realizing that Porthos was, in his own way, offering Loki privacy with Aramis, even though Loki was certain Porthos would have preferred to not leave the room at all.

"Yes, that would be wise," he found himself saying. Porthos nodded to him and disappeared into the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Loki sank back into his chair, closing his eyes and reaching out with his magic to feel for the flicker of white light that was Aramis. It was terrifyingly dim, like a candle beset by a strong breeze.

Opening his eyes, he gazed desolately at the wounded man before him. Aramis's hand was within reach of his own, but Loki did not reach out and take it.

He had no right.

There was no concept of time as he sat and stared at the rise and fall of Aramis's chest, reaching out every so often to see if he could feel the lack of resistance that would mean Aramis would at last accept his magic.

It could have been minutes or hours later when Aramis's breathing suddenly hitched. Fearing that his temporary healing had let go, Loki leaned forward and found himself confronted by glazed brown eyes. Heat was radiating off Aramis as if he were a furnace.

He flinched away when Loki reached out a hand, so he froze, slowly pulling back. Something was wrong, off. Then it hit him.

Aramis was staring at him like he did not know who he was.

"Where am I?" he croaked, eyes darting frantically around the room. "Where are the others?"

Loki had never had to soothe an injured man before, but he gave it his best shot, needing to calm Aramis down before he did himself some damage. "You're at an inn," he said smoothly, wincing internally at the distrust in Aramis's usually warm eyes. "You're safe."

"Where are my brothers?" he asked harshly, trying weakly to sit up. Loki leaned forward hurriedly to push him back down but only succeeded in making Aramis more frantic. "Where's Marsac?"

Loki sat back slowly, rising his hands to show he was not a threat. He did not know who this Marsac was, but it was clear that Aramis's mind was lost in the past, locked in some private hell.

"I'm not sure where Marsac is," he said, thinking quickly. "But I can fetch Porthos for you." Anything to keep Aramis from reopening his punctured lung.

To his surprise, Aramis recoiled in horror. "No! He wasn't there, he wasn't," he chanted weakly. "He's safe."

"He's here now," Loki said desperately. It didn't seem to do any good; Aramis was trying to push himself up again. "He's downstairs, I'll fetch him."

Every fiber of his being was screaming at him not to leave, but he forced himself to turn his back on Aramis and sprint down the hall, frantically reaching out with his magic to find Porthos.

Locating him at last, he skidded to a halt before a door in the next hallway, bursting in without bothering to knock. Porthos took one look at his face and didn't even stop to ask what had happened. He simply leapt to his feet and charged down the hall behind him.

Aramis was thrashing weakly when they thundered into the room, legs tangled in the sheets at the base of the bed.

"He was asking for someone called Marsac!" Loki called as Porthos ran over. "I said you were here and he got even worse."

Porthos swore frantically, trying to push Aramis back onto the bed without hurting him. "Aramis! Aramis, calm down, please, you're safe."

"You're not real!" Aramis moaned, trying to pull himself free from Porthos's gentle grasp.

Loki could see that this was not going to work. It wasn't enough for Porthos to simply talk to Aramis; in this state, he needed a more physical reassurance. He remembered all the casual touches he'd seen since he arrived and it hit him like Mjolnir: Aramis's nature was tactile, and he would not be calmed down unless Porthos proved to him he was really there in a way Aramis's feverish brain could grasp.

The thought of allowing it was like ice in his heart, but Loki could feel his hold on the magic slipping, the punctured lung straining to open up. "You'd better just do it."

Porthos looked up, reluctance written on his face, and Loki realized with a jolt that Porthos had suspected what needed to be done but had not suggested it. He was trying to be considerate of Loki's claim.

That knowledge strengthened his resolve. "Quickly, before he hurts himself," he snapped. Porthos needed no further commands, clambering onto the bed and wrapping Aramis in his well-muscled arms until he was pressed tightly against his chest.

Aramis thrashed for a moment longer before he suddenly relaxed against Porthos, shivering uncontrollably.

"You're real," Loki heard him whisper, pressing his face against Porthos's shoulder. Porthos shot Loki an apologetic look as he stroked his fingers through Aramis's matted hair, murmuring things Loki couldn't quite hear.

Eventually Aramis slipped into an uneasy slumber and Porthos moved to extricate himself, but Loki shook his head. "You should stay in case it happens again."

"It's just the fever," Porthos said quietly, dropping back against the pillows. "He's gone back five years."

"Who is Marsac?' Loki asked just as quietly, desperate to fill the silence. He couldn't risk Aramis waking again and injuring himself, but the sight of Porthos holding him was almost more than he could bear.

Porthos winced at the name. "That's not my place to tell," he said at last. When Loki shot him a frustrated look, he sighed but did not relent. "Sorry, but his demons are his own. Ask him yourself when he wakes up; I'm sure he'll tell you."

Loki noticed his emphasis on the word when, and nodded his acceptance, sealing the hope in his heart. They were silent for a moment, Aramis's strained breathing the only noise in the room, before Loki spoke again.

"How did you know where to cut?" he asked quietly, remembering the way Porthos's hand had so surely traced along the edge of hard stomach muscles, choosing where to slice through the fragile skin.

Porthos's eyes darted up to meet his. "Aramis taught me. Athos took a gut shot once on a battlefield and Aramis's arm was cut too badly to sew him up. I had to get the bullet out, and I remember Aramis was praying, thanking God, because he said if the bullet had hit 'im anywhere else there'd have been no chance."

The reminder of the mortality of these men mirrored Porthos's description, hitting Loki like a shot to the stomach and leaving him ill in its wake.

They were so fragile.

Porthos fell silent once more and this time Loki did not break it to question him. He simply stared at Aramis, clutching at the continued motion of his chest like a lifeline and watching his light steadily dim in the face of a fever that refused to break.

Around midnight, he began praying to Aramis's god to save him, because Loki was no longer certain he could.

No longer certain he was Aramis's angel.

* * *

**AN: LOOK, I have input on this chapter! When Loki swears in Old Norse, it loosely translates to "pig bollocks". Which is a curse I can empathise with, because this chapter just yanked out of my heart and stamped on it. Feel the same way? WRITE TO US! - K**


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